Here I am without my winter icon.

The first snow of the year began as rain. Sometime while I was on the subway going up northwards it changed, and when I got out - leaving the station, exiting under a bridge and finally coming out underneath the sky - it was to something I hadn't seen in far too long a time. I don't know how it can be winter yet. Snow comes in winter. Last year there was precious little of it. This year it's coming early, and maybe that means autumn, perhaps the most transient season, has already come and gone.

One morning in September I slung my feet out of bed and knew, instantly, that summer was over. Walking in the snow today, I thought winter was here. Autumn doesn't announce its arrival or departure the way the rest of the seasons do. Autumn is noticed, and bid good-bye in nearly the same breath. Spring is riotous, summer clings, winter leaves when it's good and ready. And autumn has its urge for going.

The snow today built up in the Botanical Garden, falling onto the water and landing between the trees. I took a little time to stand at the window and watch it come down for the sake and pleasure of doing so, for the length of time of a song. Trio Rococo's cover of Blackbird had me standing there, listening and watching. At the climax of the song, two geese flew over the forest, and two more more flew up from the trees to join them. I watched the four of them circle around, orient themselves together as a flock, and then watched them fly away.

I'll be watching for them when they come back.