Inside the Snow Globe

Head into the storm and you’ll be surprised by what you come out with.

1

First there is the worrying sky, layers on layers of foreboding gray, each one a silty deposit in your DNA. You have left the house seeking the kinship of a familiar malaise.

Next, delicate splinters of sleet, tiny pinpricks of adrenalin, the curious tingling of fear. You wonder if you should turn around.

Then fat, wet flakes that pause on your shoulder, transient, too fleeting to stay and make sense.

In a heartbeat, the temperature drops: Cue the cool, dry crystalline street dancers, begging to be lauded for their fantastic acrobatic feats and infinite geometric formations. They are proud and vain. Artful. But conscientious, too.