College is cancelled. I have a reasonable excuse not to leave the house today; we do, though, to play in the snow. The strange man next door stands beside his recycling bag full of Kronenburg cans and throws snowballs at us. One slides down my neck.
Snowfall. Remembering the late sweet daze of Friday night, I could say so much, did I dream it? All of it?
Confident I reached to you.
(I did not dream it).
On the train, I write the line from the ee cummings poem that makes me cry.
Snowfall; no sound. Bleak, content weather.