I've got my space heater blaring, a cup of herb tea in my favorite china and my latest book purchase in my lap. E-mail has slowed to the crawl of traffic driving down my street and I feel the day winding down early.
Occasionally the wind causes the whole house to shutter and swirls of snow drive down from the roof. From which direction is the snow coming? Of course it's the west, but it blows in such wild circles and sometimes seems to hover in place outside my office window.
I rub my eyes and try to clear the fog from my contacts because it's getting harder and harder to make out the houses across the street. They are filtered behind a cataract cloud of blowing snow.
Can't tell where the street ends and the yard begins. And I watch as landmarks—the stop sign at the corner, the unruly hydrangea in the front bed and the patio table on the back deck—measure the accumulation.
The wind pushes hard on the front door seemingly penetrating the protective glass of the storm door. But in between gusts, all is quiet and momentarily peaceful. But it won't last. It's 2:50 and by 3:15 the boys will be home and celebrating the likelihood of another snow day.