OUT OF MY window at the moment I can see a hesitancy of snowflakes in the garden. They look and move more like small white moths than snowflakes, rising and falling in the breeze. There aren’t many of them, thank heaven. It’s March already and still the winter, like a less-than-ideal guest (Cyril Connolly, for instance) can’t bring itself to leave.
Source: The Fortnightly Review.