The wind was up before the sun. It picked up snow and tossed it around, rearranged it into drifts, bullied it off rooftops, pushed its way onto the porch, shoved up against the front door where it waited with the morning news. It bolted back into the air, changed directions, as though trying to return home, jilting the earth.
Crows came. Snowballs from hell, singed and zigging through the air like black lightening. Confetti for the workday. Sun squinted through the mash of snow and crows and nothing was clear, except my tea.
I started anyway.