Invierno

Winter is unmistakably here. Tiny snowflakes float gently but unrelentingly from the heavens, like a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar gone amok. These miniscule flakes are, one by one, creating spectacular drifts. I briefly opened my skylight to dislodge the accumulated snow only to have it be quickly recoated, enveloping me in a powdery blanket. My car is nearly completely covered with a fluffy quilt of snow.

It is only 8:20 a.m., on a Sunday, when most of the world is probably asleep, but I can hear the sounds of a neighbor's shovel stubbornly scraping against the pavement. The city's plows have already made several passes down my street, a main thoroughfare. Only 30 feet of unshoveled driveway stands between me and the clean road. Earlier this morning, while meditating, the sounds of my downstair's neighbors' snores percolated into my apartment. I will wait until they stir before attempting to shovel. And my shovel is in my car so I will have to bushwhack a trail to get to it. But I am not in a rush.