Like a lost dog I tramp down the snow and ice covered street. The crunch of my footsteps the only sound to break the crackling wind in the leafless trees. I love putting the back of my hand to my face to feel the contrast of warmth against the cold red of my cheek. And red is a warm color. I’m always amazed at how the snow changes the neighborhood into somewhere else, something so different as to be unrecognizable. My brain tells me this is the same place, but my heart is incredulous. I grew up here. I should think I know my neighborhood. In the dark, in the rain, or in the snow. Surely we have moved into a veil between waking and dreams and found this place of wonder. I tease a sheet of ice off of a holly leaf and put it to my tongue. The earthiness reminds me of an old cabernet. And speaking of cabernet, I know I must go on home before they start to worry. But I want to take all of this in, be in it, fall to the powder and melt into my neighbor’s lawn. But there’s hot soup. And wine.