snow

or not. What little fell, remained like manna on the grass this morning. The roads mostly bare, minus the odd icy street crossing. At lunch I walked outside, 32 degrees. My hands were cold, stayed that way even after I put on gloves. I took a detour through some gardens with a meandering water feature. A patch of ice floated amidst the duckweed. As each tiny flake hit the water, it created the smallest ripple, one single ring, no radiating circles, it was as if the reverberation closed back up on itself. I watched a few, then wandered to the tall trees where herons have been building nests as of late. The nests were perched precariously and close together on the highest thin branches. So small, I can't imagine the herons landing on them. No herons around today. The lightest of breezes shook the remaining leaves on the pin oaks, rustling, the trees holding greedily to every last brown leaf. Now inside, the dark demeanor of the light seems so promising, but no snow falls.