Yes, last week it was in the 60's and this weekend it will be there once again, but tonight it's a scrotal-tightening 10˚ in wonderful Denverland, where the temps are sure to drop down even closer to zero before I climb into my bed and pull the comforters up tight around my neck. But that's okay because the ground, frozen from last night's light snowfall and then dusted again throughout the day today, made a satisfying swishing cracking sound with each step I took. The branches of the trees were covered pleasantly, if only temporarily in white sprinkles and we had the park to ourselves, without even the footprints of others to cut across our field of vision. Duncan got to roll in the new powder, making his own version of the snow angel I made in the dark last night, a much less rigid, free-form angel which captured his complete and utter disregard for convention and critical analysis. And then there was the color of the sky as the sun set behind the mountains, a sort of birthday cake flavored sherbet, with blue and orange and gold and a cloudy, velvety red all swirling and bleeding together like thick soup. While small tufts of snow sifted through the branches and Dunc gnawed on the stick which he carried proudly from home, selected from the closet in which we've been collecting his best finds, I stood in the cold which seemed suddenly less cold and merely listened to world being the world, thankful I got to spend the moment, not shivering, not bitter for the sun, but thankful for the afternoon corner I occupied where I got to witness all of the nothingness.