A few nights ago I ran home through empty streets late at night, lungs straining in the cold, songs of rebellion singing low in my ears. I only run when no one is looking, uncoordinated, elbows and knees moving ungracefully. Sometimes the feel of running is reason enough to run. Just as I hit the bottom of my hill the first flakes of the morning's snow sifted down from the sky and wetly kissed my cheeks.
On Thursday, waiting for my sledding companion, I turned a corner intending to get coffee only to unexpectedly nearly collide with my favorite tall-dark-and-handsome. Confused and flustered I immediately turned another corner and found myself caught in the crossfire of a knee-high snowball fight. It paused, considering, while the snow layered itself on my hat, and then the smallest combatant shrugged and threw the snowball in its hand at my shin and then ran. I gave chase, staggering through the snow, until we both fell into a little drift and lay there, laughing. When we stood we were both white from head to toe.
Yesterday afternoon I stood at my door and watched the dark and the calm sky. A crow flew up and perched on a branch on the other side of the fence, and almost immediately another crow landed on the branch directly above it. The branch bent and shook a large clump of snow right on to the head of the lower crow who shook himself indignantly and flew up to the branch above his companion, sending a clump of white down on to his back. Both crows cawed loudly and flew away.
Sometimes I think the world puts on little shows just for me.
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