Folded tight like little secrets along thin limbs, rhododendron leaves clamp shut as another storm thickens the air.

Outside the front window I see next season's buds pointing upward through snow, wind, and clinging ice. Tapered points wait for a spring sun. Opening in the warmth and stretching pink petals to catch buttery sunlight, they won't remember winter.

Light fades into dusk then darkness, and I get ready for the bar. Hopeful faces walk in looking for promises. Looking for friendship, love, sex, magic, or happiness, they will find something, everything, nothing, and accept a beer or whiskey while they wait. A storm is coming.

At home with Lily's training collar dropping from my fingers, I let it coil on the floor as I step away from her. She sits and waits.

This is just the first step, Jerry tells me. He uses a light voice as if I am made of bubbles.

Life is in limbo while we stand around in our boots, wool hats, and worn mittens, waiting to fight off the sky with a stupid shovel. More snow is coming in.