Perhaps I should make documented worries of no snow more often. Shortly after bitching about dry summer conditions, in which half the state had caught fire, the rains finally came, and we had an okay monsoon. Years and lifetimes ago, Sabina, seeing that I was purging words from my skull, asked me if I was casting spells. I gave her a quizzical glance, and she said my words were incantious-yes, it's a word, because I fucking say so-but she was probably just trying to score a date. Both the gypsy and the bruja had at one time or another remarked my words had power.
Those girls, all of them, give me far too much credit. Strange luck and roll of the bones chaos equate my stories coinciding with shifts in the meteorological pattern, not any kind of mojo. Seriously. I don't think that's how magic, if there really is such a thing, works.
Snow has been falling in our Sahel, across the mountains, for the better part of four days. At a guess, I'd say there's between four and six inches of fresh powder around the House of Owls and Bats. It's a given the snowbums are touching their no-no places in absolute glee. Travelers have told tales of slow progress and harrowing moments atop the high points along the Road. I find myself able to legitimately wear my snow boots. So it goes.
"We went about a month without snow," I told a shaken traveler. "It's a little macabre to drive in, certainly, but we're all grateful for it."
The me who lived in the middle of a city, years and lifetimes ago, would look at the me who lives in the middle of the mountains like a madman for that statement. There are a few from back then I still speak with whom would verify that, some who most likely figure I'm insane anyway. Even and especially were I to up and wax philosophical about the phantasmal nature of you's and me's. What do you do?
Meteorological prophecy foretells of these series of disturbances and strong storms getting near their death-rattle. A couple of days of calm at least before another potentially powerful storm, although, that one's still too far off to speak of in anything other than speculative tongues. Even the most hopeful of weather oracles seem to know that.
I look out my window, taking in the freshly blanketed world. Inside, there's hot tea, a fire, and loud music. Part of me considers a brief and solitary walkabout, just to enjoy the snowbound silence. There might just be a chance for a decent snowshoe yet. And, who knows? Maybe a storm, which will finally justify that last infusion of Nepali black tea I've been holding on to for so long.
I am hopeful, and, as I've often said; hope is a very good thing to have...