It was a day.
One where the sun decided there was no point in showing itself, so the clouds were sent in to provide the grey so appropriate.
With the clouds came the snow. Not a blizzard of epic proportions, just snow. Slow snow, spitting, spotty, light, inconsistent in its consistency. Cold enough the snow stuck, piled up to nothing material – 5, maybe 6 inches lying flat in the open spaces where the bare tree limbs stretched out but failed to catch the snow, so it reached the ground.
There was nothingness. Wasn’t cold enough people would look back and say what they did during the Great Freeze of January 2025; not wet nor warm enough to remark how the streets ran with sluggish snowmelt; not deep enough to talk about the battle between shovelfuls; not windy enough for any shoveled snow to angrily return to the driveway.
It was a day.
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Fancy Boys Club 