Like the fat kid in the third grade, a wet snow descended on the neighborhood this morning ... gloppy, heavy and innocent.
An email informs me that someone wants to come to the zendo tomorrow ... which means I will have to go out and shovel a path through the fat-kid accumulation.
A path to the zendo. Once, a line like that might have had resonating and metaphorical magic to it.
Now, it's just snow.