Places to Play

It was a beautiful blue day, clear and warm, a heavy jacket kind of day. The snow is receding and the tracks that have been cut by the walkers and the dogs and quiet, creeping night animals, have started spreading out, growing wider and shallower and the grass, brown and yellow beneath, has poked through like cigarette burns on a blanket. The spotted ground, not yet frozen when it snowed, is now wet and muddy, a hundred little bogs that pull up and into the remaining white.

There is no place to make angels and we have to search the far side of western-facing slopes to find snow to fling into Duncan's face, to powder onto his back. It's heavier and wetter and doesn't kick as well and when I scoop it into my hands it clumps together into slush balls or melts and runs between my fingers. But we have been diligent and we know a secret: when you are warm and allow yourself to be guided by the enthusiasm of one who loves the snow almost as much as he loves you, you will never run out of places to play.