The thing with snow is that it returns.
The lull between storms is a deceptive deflection, designed to convince poor saps to free their spaces of obstruction, only to be filled once more by the following morning.
Snow makes a mockery of the power of civilization.
It chokes arteries of transport, smothers buildings, deftly eliminates power lines and pipe lines.
As I move with my flashlight through objects rendered useless in the absence of electricity, I am reminded again of the razor edge we live on here.
We live by the grace or the indifference of the land around us.
It is so frighteningly simple to pass from comfort to fear.
A night was all it took this time.
A single night’s worth of snow is beautiful, overwhelming, and deadly.
There have been injuries, potentially fatalities, although we will not know all of them until the weather is fully past.
I value this reminder.
I write of the importance of remembering the weather when writing not because I am a deranged meteorologist.
I write of the importance of weather because the winter lurks always in the background of these places, the burning drive beneath the skin.
For better or for worse, the land I live in has shaped my thoughts and ideas.
To see my version of the razor’s edge, you can read my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, which is available here.