drip. drip. drip.

I went to the window because the sky was bright – glowing the same natural white that cloaked the outstretched distance. Snow. Only an inch or four. Just enough to cover everything with a quiet white.

Now, all that has changed. Grey streets and grey tones mark up the piles of frozen white, like hard pencil lines scuff clean sheets of paper. Edited beyond recognition.

It has begun to melt now, and the icicles lining the roof are drip, drip, dripping. If only I could hope that this meant spring; alas, winter has only just begun.

I will walk to the window again before it is spring. It will be white again. More snow.

I am marking white paper with grey marks today. Editing articles beyond recognition. Wishing the snow had not lost its magic.

The hours between two and four in the afternoon are the hardest to work through, and (usually) I am thankful for a window in my office.

But today the drip, drip, dripping is steadily reminding me of the minutes that refuse to pass quickly, the season that refuses to leave early, and the work that still needs to done.


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