Yesterday evening it was snowing. Not the kind that falls heavily and thickly blankets the streets and trees, but the kind that makes you wonder 'is it snow?' until a swath of it is illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car, and you realise it is, indeed, the white stuff. It was the type of snow that melts before it hits the ground, that meets windshields and pavement as rain, but which, for a brief moment suspended in air, is water in its crystalline form. Yesterday I sat waiting for 30 minutes in the darkness of a bus shelter, watching the fog my warm breath made as I blew it out in puffs in between the pages of a collection of short stories on West Africa written by Canadian author, Joan Baxter.
When I woke up this morning, my world was coated in an icing-sugar frosting of snow.
I'll I've got to say is it's a good thing I ran my winter coat on the de-wrinkle setting of our dryer yesterday.
I can do snow. I think.
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