We woke up to blinding white light. The snow is still falling, and our cars are submerged in wave-shaped drifts. My spaniel, Bailey, is completely submerged. His fur is the color of the snow and only his brown spots let us know where he is as he undulates, dolphin-like, above and beneath. James Joyce’s closing passage from “The Dead” comes to mind:

“Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, fur­ther west­wards, softly falling into the dark muti­nous Shan­non waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely church­yard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and head­stones, on the spears of the lit­tle gate, on the bar­ren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the uni­verse and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the liv­ing and the dead.”