My eyes are drawn skyward out the window, following fluttering flakes to the cold earth. They seem to be sticking, each crystal finding a home upon a glacial blade of grass or cluster of pine needles hanging from an increasingly weighty bough. Rufus strums the guitar near the window, a pot of chili bubbles on the back burner, a fire blazes in the belly of the basement, and I’m thrice warmed over. 




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