On Monday, there was no sunrise. Nor was there even the faintest blush on Tuesday. Instead, it just gradually became light enough to see. Soft gray light filtered through clouds and falling snow. There were no shadows. There was no hint of sky beyond the cap of clouds. Snow fell and fell and fell.
A squirrel scrambled onto a second story window sill. It peered in the window, tucking up its paws to warm them against its chest. My backyard birds fluffed themselves. Every now and then, they shook off the snow that collected on their feathers. I marched through knee-high snow on our walks. Chuck leaped and lunged through the drifts.
This morning, the sun did rise. Its impotent rays made snowbanks sparkle and trees cast long shadows. It was -7 degrees fahrenheit when we got in the car and headed to Huntington Beach. It was so quiet on the trail. No waves lapped on the beach. The creek did not gurgle between its banks. The birds didn’t sing. The squirrels didn’t chatter. The lake looked like a lunar landscape, harsh and inhospitable. In the distance, downtown Cleveland steamed.
