Three-Nights-of-Hands-Clasped-Against-the-Cold

I wonder if, when Francis Pharcellus wrote of supernal beauty, he had a Midwestern winter in mind. Somehow I doubt it. But he could have.

Because despite the slush, the puddles, the leaky roofs, despite the persistent and inexplicable drizzle in below-freezing temps, despite the wet feet, the dripping hair, the chilled fingers, there is something beautiful about today. The word "crystalline" comes to mind. Because if you look up from the treacherous sludge through which you trudge, up from watching your jeans darken up to the knee, you can glimpse a glittering world captured in ice. It is as though Jack Frost touched down in Iowa City but only for an instant, leaving miniature stalactites suspended from slender branches themselves sheathed in nature's glass, curled brown leaves forming the cores of little ice globes dangling from the skeletal trees like frozen fruit. Eddies of steam swirled across the concrete as I walked into my building. Beautiful.

In other news, several of the university's offices have closed, employees have refused to show up for work, and I am holding out hope that the class for which I have to give a presentation will be canceled this evening.