I know. I tend to rhapsodize about the snow. I like how it gilds the everyday, how it covers imperfections, changes patterns, shakes up routines.

But one thing I don’t like is what it does to walking trails and paths. Here in the suburbs, walkers are always at the mercy of the automobile, but never more than when snow and ice take our paths away. Suddenly, all walking is street walking, which is fine when there are shoulders and gravel berms, not so good when those are buried under mountains of plowed snow.

Thursday, after a foot fell, I stayed inside, but by Friday I was itching to be out again. Streets were full of slush; my shoes oozed.  On Saturday, more snow, but it wasn’t sticking, so I ran gingerly through flurries. Yesterday, finally, a still cold with dry pavement, a boon to the ice-phobic.

Our paths are still covered, but I’m not sidelined. At least until the next flakes fall. We’re expecting more snow tonight.