Like wagons protecting themselves from the cold, the rumors of snow are drawing nearer, huddling closer together with my town in the center. The whispers are beginning to rustle, spreading from one corner of the state and radiating outwards in a spiral. Sometimes there are independent accounts springing up in the shadier regions, tucked inland away from the salt.
An update online of a snow sighting from one friend quickly results in non-scientific calculations by friends in neighboring regions concerning probability, averages, and expectations. The announcement of a snowy weather forecast leads to snow dances, to rituals both exacting and precise. Those who have never before bothered with obsessive counting find themselves trapped by the time-tested behaviors leading to the desired weather outcomes.
It’s still green here, but if you listen to the furious updating of facebok statuses, it won’t stay that way for much longer. I have no snow yet, but two nights ago it was so cold on my bike ride home that my arms felt like they fell asleep and it took pounds of blankets and hot tea to melt them back to normal. We are without snow flurries, true, but the air outside looks blue from the cold and I’m pretty sure that puddle is frozen over.