It snowed almost all day Wednesday: 13 centimetres (just over five inches for the folks still in imperial). Blustery, blowing snow so thick at times the trees in the park across the street looked like looming shadows, fuzzy and indistinct but still somehow threatening.
Looking down on the street, I watched people scurry for cover (hopefully somewhere warm and cozy). A street person huddled under what looked like six parkas on a bench, looking miserable.
My friend in Toronto reported that from where he stood, it was 17°C. 17 - in December! “It’s too hot and muggy here!” he complained. “I miss snow.”
Later on, the snow plows sounded like distant thunder as they rumbled down residential streets, scraping the road raw. The sound of car tires on freshly plowed streets sounded uncannily like miniature jets as they sped by the home office window. A drunk staggered through knee-high snow drifts as a young child, all but sexless under a bulging snowsuit, playfully tossed snowballs at a quickly retreating mother.
