Mister Penguin is finally in his element. He looked a bit out of place in October when I first displayed him, in honor of the neighbor who, polled over my porch remodeling plans, stoutly asserted that I could put fucking penguins in front of my house and it would be okay with her. I think he has always resented that I didn’t get him a lady penguin. (I assume that the one with the colorful crest is the boy penguin, but what do I know?)
This is a polite, seasonal snowstorm, thoroughgoing enough to close pretty much everything but the Seven-Elevens yet lacking the random glee of, say, Snowmageddon four years ago. People have sensibly stayed off the roads, more or less, and the wind has been gusting enough to blow castor-sugar snow over my porch furnishings, but also enough to banish any accumulation from shrubs or gutters in transparent, fairyland plumes. I believe it is supposed to pick up as the snow moves out and it gets heathen cold, but with any luck I’ll have a chance to clear whatever falls between now and then, having got up the first few inches just before sundown. The first shift of shoveling was no penance; I will try not to freeze myself solid on the second.