The rear door was cracked open.
A shout went up. “A runner approaches.”
Papi, the famous ginger cat, galloped in to great applause and cheers. The door was shut and locked behind him.
Locals crowded around the dashing feline. “What’s the word, Papi? What’s it like out there?”
The heroic floof’s amber eyes flashed. His tail slashed the air. “Snow. Everywhere. Up to my belly. And still, it snows. Quick, I need food. Hurry, damn it.”
It’s been about sixteen hours straight of snow falling. Am I sure that it didn’t stop in the night? No. But it was falling whenever I looked. This is the small, dry powdery stuff. Little relative moisture in it. And it’s piling up. Eight inches in some places around my Ashlandia patch. No wind, so there’s no drifts.
It’s Tuesday, February 28, 2022. Sunrise’s ticket was punched at 6:48 AM. Sunset: (trumpet flourish) 6 PM.
The sky is white, as is the ground, and white stuff religiously falls. It’s like the white album. 30 degrees F out there, so not too cold. Today’s high will be 35. Tonight’s line will be 29. It’s a narrow operating margin. Feels like a good day to stay home. Drink coffee, read, write. Got books, will sit. And we have heat, power, all those things, and food. We’re in good shape compared to quake and tornado victims, and homeless folks. The city and churches have opened shelters and established places for people to go. Breakfast and dinner is served.
The Neurons are showing an impish side, playing Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” (1982). “It’s a nice day, for a, white wedding,” Idol sneers. “It’s a nice day to start again.”
Okay.
Stay pos. Hope you’re doing well wherever you be on this day, and that good things happen for you, to you, etc. Coffee is served. Here is Billy. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 
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