soft, the snow oxygenated with sunlight and pink and yellow tinting and bells infinitesimal in crystals fusing melting. nice packing snowballs balancing flipping off mister's beautiful nose caught and eaten like apple flesh. like we'd be in despair if it wasn't so damn mild and sweet out. yes we're not pretending it's all happening. the arctic is fifty degrees hotter. not mild. we are held in suspension. we hover over our own uncertain city, like lovers.