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The past few days have been a reminder that it is still winter at Sherwood Cottage. A fair bit of snow fell over the weekend and on Monday, coating the ground rather prettily (and somehow staying largely clear of the roads, which meant no snow day but also a chance to drive about and see the shining snow in relative safety), and while much of it has melted away, there is still some on the ground where the sun did not touch it. Temperatures will be a bit higher today, so more of it will likely melt away, but I doubt that it will all be gone by the time I get home this afternoon. I do not complain of it; it is nice to see snow for a day or two, but it is far less good to be blanketed by it day after day without let, as others have to be.

There are many things I miss about my life in New York City. The paycheck is one of them, of course, and groups to which I belonged are others. Winter is not, however; the way The City handles cold weather and its precipitation leaves much to be desired. Streets in the outer boroughs--including the best of them, Brooklyn--get plowed far less than they ought, and little provision is made for the actual removal of the snow. It is simply shoved to the side, where it gathers in piles and melts just enough to get into shoes but not enough to find its way to storm drains and be carried away. Sidewalks are shoveled one shovel wide, making a path that convincingly allows for one-way traffic while it handles five-way walking. But it does, at least, cut down on the smell. Somewhat.

Winters in Oklahoma, or at least in the part of Oklahoma where I find myself and where my daughter was born, are gentler in some regards. Streets get plowed but little, which annoys in many ways but also means that there are no piles of filthy sludge to jump while walking. And because people are not out afoot as much, they tend not to throw so much onto the snow, so that it stays more nearly pristine for longer; New York City snow is soon bestrewn with fast food wrappers and other detritus, including feces human and otherwise. (My tree well was a popular repository, whatever the season.) While I am certain there is poo in the snow here, it does not show up as much as it did there--and I am certain, too, that there is a metaphor in there somewhere. (When is there not?)

As the poet writes, though, "Þæs ofereode; þisses swa mæg." The way things are now will not endure, although whether the weather will grow colder before it grows warmer again remains to be seen. And it will grow cold once again thereafter, in any event. I suppose there is a metaphor to be found in that, too.