The morning was hushed and bright. On the roofs’ mismatched shingles, on the stooped pecan trees, even in the steel fences’ serried links, lay a thin, white dust Buddy had seen before only on TV. Around the bougainvillea, scraps of burnt blanket had turned gray with frost. He pulled his covers over his head and tried to decide if he should tell his father that the snow was there.
Perhaps the snow would keep his father home.
“Snow, Houston, 1974,” The Virginia Quarterly Review, Vol. 78, No. 1 (Winter 2002); Pushcart Prize XXVIII nominee.