It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
(Wallace Stevens, 13 Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird)

Snow is falling. I’m in Leela’s, working, and outside the streets are turning white.

Last night when I came out of P&P it was a partial snow, like soft icing on the cake of the park benches, like every lamppost and car and newspaper stand was a muffin that had had its top iced. Today it was like cigarette ash, dandelion fluff, dust on the streets of the world. Tonight it’ll turn hard as varnish.

I see it with so much surprise, having never, ever lived in a snowy place before this. And there may not be any new metaphors left for it. A blanket. A sheet. Sleep. I walk through it like an alien experiencing texture for the first time, and it’s so beautiful I don’t expect it to be cold on my hands.

There is nothing at all to be done about snow except to get cold and to stare until your eyes and skin are burned.
And the women of Denver are still going to the theater in high heels and open-toed shoes.