The day it snows, the Sky is close and the color of shell; the day after, the Sky is hard, and a clean blue.  In the shade, snow heaps in rumpled, hoary masses—tracked through and muddy with exuberance; in the sunshine, it has simply vanished. The crows roost in the bare treetops, and chatter among themselves. What are they planning? They take off in a rush—chasing the low Sun or something new to eat. Tonight will be the coldest yet. The shadows across the yard grow longer; the days grow shorter.  We will await the nadir, when the Sun will touch furthest South, and then swing back, like a pendulum. We beseech—“Do you miss us like we miss you?”—and light streets and quiet rooms with tiny fires.