It Doesn't Feel Like a Monday.

I stood out on a plateau last night with the snow shrieking around me, in "the palace of winds." I understood that phrase when I read it in The English Patient, but never as in that moment with the cold toothy wind sticking my back and blowing down into the valley.

I slid down the side of the hill and hunkered down in the brush, on my knees. I had wandered around searching for magical things all day, in the beginnings and the zenith of the snowstorm. I found it there, among the curves of the dormant vines, snowflakes slashing their way through the air above me. It wasn't magical so much as awesome, in the most majestic sense of that word.

I resolved not to waste the next snowstorm, after last winter's big one. So maybe I did, today, but tomorrow there is the promise of much frolicking and yesterday was majestic. Maybe now I shall go out to the Jewish cemetery and find the coupled silence of snow and the grave.