I woke up this morning to the sound of an old friend. It was rain, liquid precipitation, that which does not need to be shoveled. It runs off in rivulets; it takes care of itself. It is also taking care of the snow, what’s left of it. Only the parking lot mountains remain.
I walked out on the deck and tiptoed through the puddles. Cold and clammy, they shiver in the breeze. If snow is a pillow, rain is a mirror. It glistens in the dull light; it has a life of its own. Unlike the snow, it reflects the world back to us.