There was a descent of damp- not a rain, nor even a mist, but simple damp which gathered on every surface, turning the pavement dark and beading the grass. The cloudy veils drew off and then returned, again and again, and each time the waning moon was revealed the rimed rooftops glowed pale white and the black street reflected the light. The woods were sounding with soft wind, but here the cold air remained still. Hours passed, and nothing stirred, and I thought that winter had been reduced to this, a miniature, as something that might be preserved in a ball of glass, a globe of cold clarity.
Snowflakes have been falling for hours, but none of them stick. The landscape remains merely wet, and the night air doesn't even feel as cold as the afternoon did. This bout of precipitation might yet turn to snow, but rain seems more likely at this elevation. The birds seemed undisturbed by the damp today, and dozens of them happily chirped and pecked the lawn while the white flakes settled and vanished about them. I'd have joined the birds, but I didn't feel like eating worms even though nobody loves me, everybody hates me.
HAHAHAHAHA! He knows which side his
face is battered bread is buttered on!