It’s been snowing for six days straight. The snowplow men around here have diesel pickups with tall articulated blades, and Kubotas with heated cabs, and everything in between, and they still can’t get ahead of it. Two weeks until spring baseball in Scottsdale, and we’ve just had twenty-eight inches of snow from a succession of weather systems, fresh clean powder lighter than goose down, dropping out of a pale sky that has never felt coal smoke. Animal tracks show up everywhere, are covered, reappear.
