Winter blessed the city of Concord today. From dark of infant morning until slate of late afternoon, the snow fell so lazily, it almost drifted off as it settled in the street. The outskirts of town were the luckiest, picking up snow almost fully pure. It was hard New England white, no timid bits of ice to smash upon the pavement and pool up in a pond. Such miracles occurred closer to the heart; the main street, for instance, swore to the traipsing, “Soon I will be drowned.” None rescued it, though. The need wasn’t there, not on one of the prettier days. Few of us respected it, few of us admired it nearly enough, but this storm really was that rare beatific daughter of winter. How long before we wake up to her again?