Heedless of a forecast that offered, if not permission, then at least excuse, frozen flakes hang embarrassed in the air, like celestial dandruff. They come in negligable numbers; not yet an invasion, but an expeditionary force, scouts and spies sent out to discover the potential warmth of any reception. The wind whips the flakes and specks in all trajectories from down to up, making the mean descent sideways, but without much resolve. Ridge-tiles, trees and telegraph wires are outlined by a uniform grey. Brighter than at mid-winter; not yet threatening worse to come. Unreadable, like a blank stare
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