The train plowed its way through the mountains, but outside the landscaped looked like the countryside where Dr. Zhivago and Lara passed as they left the dacha for the final time. Snow kept falling off the trees and landing on the train roof to huge plumps. Passengers’s eyes moved upward as one.
This morning, warm under my new penguin flannel duvet cover I looked up at the skylight to see only white. Outside as I write the roof across the street has a good eight inches of snow. Inside my cup of caramel tea is next to the computer. Celine Dion is singing about her man and I must get back to my novel.
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