...Dreamed I was an Eskimo/Frozen winds began to blow/Under my boots and around my toes....
It's wee hours in the morning, and I should go to bed, but it's snowing.
I have no idea why I can't sleep when it snows. It's not as though it's noisy, or I can do anything about it. I'm not even staying on top of an urgent situation. Yet I watch it, check on it.
It may have something to do with having read Robert Frost's lovely poem, Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening, at a very impressionable age.
Who am I kidding? So far, every age I've been, I've been impressionable.
But now, I walk The Questing Sniff through snow that sparkles like spilled salt, and scuff through fluff that puffs like powdered sugar on a beignet. We are not the first to wander through the pristine blanket, but in some places, I meet my own tracks on the way back.
I'll be at Spotlighters on Friday and Saturday with Do Or Die Productions' One Of The Gang, and at Whispers on Sunday with a brand-new show. It's so new, I can't even tell you what it's about. Rehearsal's not until tomorrow, so it maybe hasn't been written yet.
Probably I should get started.
(Don't Eat The Yellow Snow; Frank Zappa)