I hear his step before I feel his bare arms around me. His embrace is like a warm sweater. My nose is pressed against the chilled window. I never tire of watching snow fall. Tonight it is falling hard. It is piling like tufts of whipped cream on the concrete bird bath, the green birdhouse I decorated with a red cardinal, the picket fence. The storm silences the mountain pass. Boxwoods droop like slackened shoulders under the weight of eight or so inches. Tree branches groan each time they smack against the clapboards.
“It’s so beautiful out there,” my husband whispers, kissing the crook of my neck.
“I know,” I say, pulling him even tighter around me.
“It is beautifully surreal — but I worry about the animals.”


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