It's snowed in Sewanee. Reflective glowing bits of the cloud that enveloped the mountain last night are everywhere, some is aeolian fluff, some is hard glissade-triggering sidewalk enamel. A few days ago in the valley though, you could hear it: the ratcheting metamorphic chorus, the audio brand of springish Tennessee coves in the homing advertisements of native memory.
I wonder where they go when this happens. How can a frosty chorus frog hide? And the early flowers?
"Those poor daffodils," says Elspeth.
"It's their own fault," I say, "jumping the gun like that."