Spits of snow space out across the sky.
Flakes duck and dive in solemn drill
and melt before they hit the ground.
If this be snowfall, there is no winter
like those we used to know.
Hard to dispel the storm warnings
even with little to show, or shovel or blow.
Something there is which anticipates a storm.
A glad energy, deeply hidden and worn.
Known to those who live in the in-between
where steadiness rests on granite, not clay.
Looks like tomorrow will be just another day.
annarino writes 