Out riding my bike. Tiny white things bounce off my knees. What? What? The clouds have dandruff? I’m being pelted by miniature albino smurfs?
The white things are cold. They are hard. They melt at my touch but, ominously, not on the road.
Then I get it. Winter! Skipping the charming fluffy snowflakes and starting out with a hammering of hail. Before the end of the day, the ground was covered with crunchy white patches, as the unmelting pellets gathered in hollows and crevices. This morning, windshields need scraping, the grass is stiff with frost as far as the eye can see. Now the sun is out and doing its thing. The whiteness has retreated to mere glimpses under the shade. But somewhere behind the green pastures, the warming, windless air and the bare pavement, winter is grinning. We all know the next frosty touch will feel more like a whack on the side of the head.
Find the snow shovel, toque and down parka. Here we go again.