On Saturday, there was a light smattering of snow in Prospect Park, nearly in the middle of January, and it was gone by the next morning.

This was the middle of January, when school should be canceled and sleds dotting the horizon.

Remember what the world used to be like?

Why comes the snow:
The bare black places lie
Too near the sky.
— “Snow” by Charles Bertram Johnson

In Sunday’s New York Times Magazine, Jon Gertner reported that we might be able to avoid some of the sea rise by insulating glaciers, raising oceanic sills. It would be the greatest engineering feat in the history of humankind, so of course it won’t happen.

We humans are very good at getting chemotherapy, we’re not so good when it comes to quitting smoking. prevention is not our forte. So we’ll be good at putting up dikes to protect our coasts from the encroaching ocean and moving our populations, once there is no choice, and no more snow.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
— “The Snow Storm” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

A few days earlier, a Times columnist wrote about “the end of snow.” Still, let’s hope that there is hope.

The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead! All white save the river, that marked its course by a winding black line across the landscape, and the leafless trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed more fully their wonderful beauty and intricacy of branch and twig. The children were delighted. School was scarcely over before they had their sleds out and were down at the long hill behind the church, where the snow had been well packed by many a slide and where the long slope offered a splendid course.

Little Town on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

It would be a shame to give up snow.


Content by Oblivioni.

Images by Simon Berger, Kalyee Srithnam, Lum3n/Pexels, Yuanpang Wa / Pexels, Printeboek/Pixabay, Josh Hild / Pexels

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