A Comic Opera

Enough. It's enough. The snow piles are akin to archeological tells. They grow higher and wider with each storm. Today I woke up, looked outside and knew that my car was the fifth mound in the parking lot, even though I couldn't see it over the piled snow.

Steps disappeared. The deck carried the weight of four consecutive snowstorms like a beast of burden. One neighbor attacked the roof edges with abandonment, unfazed by the deadly looking upside down spires of ice. At one point he stood his ground and, like David, slew the icicle beasts. They dropped with a menacing groan.

I dutifully dusted off the gas meter, checked the gas vent, and broke some thin layers of ice on the air conditioner. Would this ever melt?

Winds obeyed their own inclinations and spun out of control ,stinging bare skin with snow spray, tree limbs in obeisance bowed down. A plow driver revved his motor and pushed against a pile of snow, forcing it to retreat.

Tomorrow the real feel dips down to minus twenty degrees.

Perhaps it is time to purchase a Russian Ushanka hat.

My only question, do I want sheepskin, rabbit, black mink, red fox or muskrat? And will my Ushanka hat come before spring?