This is the Lady Gaga of winters.
Epic. Relentless. Record-breaking. Tedious in the extreme. When it first started, it was kind of interesting--even pretty. Beautiful at times. And then, it became the same show, different day. Snow; thaw. Snow; thaw. Snow, snow, snow. Any day, I expect Winter to show up, drunk on the streets of Paris, wearing only a bra and panties.
It's clearly an attention whore, and I have had enough of its headlines and emergencies, cancellations and posturing. Sure, we are known for our winters here in Minnesota, and we like to conbrag about them, but this has reached the point of becoming a mental health issue, not a season.
When we walked out of my brother's house to head home, there were new inches on the ground, and it was still coming down. I made some standard grumbling remarks about how over winter I am, and then when I stopped at the car, I heard something strange. A mellow hooting, coming through the air.
Two owls sat near the top of a tall tree, calling to each other, silhouetted against the peachy cast of streetlights on snow, car and city sounds softened by the white mantle on the ground.
And there, in the winter theatre, a family stood, looking up to the sky, snow falling on our shoulders, watching and hearing a rare scene. Were it not for the snow, we may have missed it.
So thanks for that pearl. It helps make it worth the slogging and shoveling.
And top that, pop star.