There is a symphony in every storm. A composition whose first notes ring cacophonous before its true consonance becomes clear.
Like all good arrangements, there is the soft boom of a bassline. The whumping beat of a plow blade bullying its way through window glass to find a listener and let them know it’s time to awake.
Over the bass comes drums. Sharp snares of swift footfalls serve up a staccato rhythm running over bedroom floors and out doors towards a reward yet realized.
Next, bring in the brass. The bugled buzzings of voices wondering just how much wonder will be found in the feet of falling white while gossiping gusts bring a perhaps-unwelcomed woodwind touch to the day.
Clicking bindings and clacking safety bars offer another layer of percussion before labored laughter and heavy breath provide the harmony that turns a powder day into an indelible memory.
But maybe the most sonorous part of any storm comes after its departure, when the subtle shout made by a sky graffitied with cobalt and torn cotton brings the joy of living into its sharpest relief and turns the day into a Classic.
The last 10 days up here have been a Classic with close to two feet of snow and March is setting up to be a Masterpiece.
There are still a few seats left in the music hall if you want to come up and see the show
See you on the hill.