About 5:30 this morning, I heard the familiar rattle and scrape of the village plow roaring past on the road. Outside my window the world is painted white again. Each branch on the tree in our front yard is coated with fluffy white snow that has been falling for several hours.
It’s beautiful, from here at my desk. Driving my daughter to a 6:30 a.m. meeting at school, sliding through intersections—that was not so pretty. But we made it.
Even though driving in the snow is not that fun, I happen to think it’s beautiful.




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