The softly falling snow lilts southward across the landscape, gently feathering its way downward onto the monumentous piles, further blocking site lanes at street corners. February has a tight hold upon the world, bitter, white and formidable. 
On the far distant horizon, barely a glimpse of spring can be imagined, past the gloom and grayness of the white world.

Winter is snuggling on the couch, a book's unbroken binding beckoning, the musky scent of beagle wafting from the carelessly tossed throw, a mug of steaming cider swirling with cinnamon paths cupped in cold hands, furry lined slippers waiting for toes to slip inside.