Deep and Crisp and Even

Almost deserted in the middle of the day.  The train runs though, and three B61s tail each other up the hill.  A couple of shovelers, an oil truck or two, and every so often a walker, hunched against the pelting snow.  Whenever you cross paths there's that awkward negotiation as to who has dibs on the narrow band of cleared snow or footprints and who gets to wait. The old familiar winter shuffle. And whenever I walk in fresh snow, a lifetime reflex kicks right in; before I know it there I am singing Good King Wenceslas again, as happy as a six-year old.  Fresh or dinted, king or page, I couldn't care less.  I'm in my element.