Snowflakes

It has been snowing in New York for quite a while now.  Saturday night we watched as the crystals danced in the street lights sticking to our sidewalk and car.  We awoke Sunday morning to at least 2 inches.  This morning we again rose to about an inch and, presently, I have cancelled dinner plans because of the fine accumulation.

If I were a snowflake, I would be very content with this season.  Last year, I wouldn't have stood a chance in the extremes of warmth to well below freezing.  

If I were a snowflake, however, I would move to a different area. Queens is nice, but I would much rather drift amongst trees in a deep forest.  Somewhere only snowflakes can get lost and, alas, survive.  Somewhere neither man nor woman will tread upon and suffocate me.

If I were a snowflake, I would love to hear jazz all the time.  Jazz and winter go well together.  Perhaps I would be lucky enough to settle amongst the window of a lone cottage where a single musician inhabits.  He stoles away from the chaotic city and secludes himself amongst nature.  A quiet night until he picks up the sacs, trumpet, or piano.

I should miss drinking wine and whiskey, which pair well with a winters eve.  I should miss cooking against the warmth of a stove.  The aroma of roasted vegetables and game would turn me to a microscopic puddle. I should miss the spring, if I were a snowflake.  The thought of flower buds would make me sweat and I would not stand a chance.