Scrunching

Snow squeaks when the temperatures are low. You hear it complaining when a car drives by, tires packing furrows of snow together with a grating, scrunching sound. You hear it when your boots wade through piles of the frozen stuff, complaining about the coldness with a squick, squick, squick. When snow is cold enough to complain, you had better take note.

Snow loses its packiness, refusing to touch other flakes long enough to make snowballs. Such cold snow eagerly jumps off car hoods and roofs in its anxiousness to warm up. Frigid snow turns blue and huddles persistently on sidewalks where it is not wanted. It will not cooperate with snowblowers or plows, resisting like a stubborn child who has not been properly fed dinner.

Only young boys are bold enough to dally with frozen snow. They hang around outside bundled in snowsuits and scarves, teasing the snow into games of toboggan and flying saucer, throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the creation of snow angels and playing track the kitty cats.

I do not mess with frigid snow. I scrunch it as little as possible with my boots, and run indoors to hide until the cold spell reprieve. I know better than to mess with madness!