This morning about a quarter to seven, I stood outside and tried to pay attention.

It was 45 minutes before dawn. Traffic was conspicuous by its absence — schools were closed for a second day — and a blanket of white covered everything in sight. It was eerily quiet; even the ubiquitous Oklahoma wind was taking it easy for once. Shapes too familiar to notice at other times had acquired seemingly-random new contours.

And I thought about a similar time, almost a quarter-century ago, a time when the snow was piled up past my heart, and I didn't care because I'd just given it away for what I had thought would be eternity.

And I thought about how hope dissolves into failure, how the pure white of snow disappears under the dirty grey of our tires and our shoes and our disappointment.

And then, of course, I went inside and complained about this damn winter.