Go for a walk and listen to how different a city blanketed in snow sounds. See how different the familiar streets and houses and trees and parks look. Feel how different it is to walk on snow and ice. Look for a cardinal or a bluejay vivid against the white.
Put out food for birds and rabbits and squirrels. Stay home from work if you can. Keep warm. Ignore politics. Hunker down. Read some poetry, drink something hot, make a pot of soup. Eat the soup with good bread and olive oil or butter. Have a drink with people you love.
After the jump, some poems . . . some of which have lines applicable to tonight's politics.
Snow By Louis MacNeice
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes? On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands? There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. 1935
An anonymous Irish poem that explains why I'm posting to Slog instead of asleep: I don't have to get up in the morning:
"Sweet is the scholar's life, busy about his studies, the sweetest lot in Ireland as all of you know well.
No king or prince to rule him nor lord however mighty, no rent to the chapterhouse, no drudging, no dawn-rising.
Dawn-rising or shepherding never required of him, no need to take his turn as watchman in the night.
He spends a while at chess, and a while with the pleasant harp and a further while wooing and winning fine women.
His horse-team hale and hearty at the first coming of Spring; the harrow for his team is a fistful of pens."
-Anonymous (17th century Ireland)
And of course, Robert Frost:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
Anyone other than me really pissed to hear this great poem in a car commercial lately?