Snowflakes, fat and wet, fall all night. Over the meadow, onto the trees, we step out, paws and feet, into the white. We make tracks to the river swelling its banks. Branches and bits of bittersweet litter the snow canvas. Mushily, we move along, slipping, sliding. I dreamed, earlier, just before waking, that I was getting married – again. A second wedding to the same man, but I was older and not wearing white, and our guests gathered cheerfully for a feast to celebrate this second coming. Before the ceremony I saw I had a spot on my two-piece orange suit and went into the dressing room to dab at it, and try to remove it, and I wasn’t successful, but I was happy anyway, because I was marrying the man I love and this second time around I saw that dressing for this did not require any kind of purity or expectations of perfection. There’s a messy spot; an honest sloppiness in the soul of a good marriage. It’s a first snow on the ground. Not my first, but this season’s first. It’s fresh, and lovely, and a welcome cycle of change.