March Blizzard

Just when Old Man Winter lowers his baton and seems poised for a bow, His arm thrusts upward, demanding the attention of musicians and audience alike. There is no gentle easing into the final cadences of this symphony. It blasts over us, filling every space in its path. Violin bows race over strings in a mad frenzy of sound, matching fierce, swirling snow. Horns blast, wind howls Drums announce the steady tattoo of sleet on roof and window. As sounds crash around us, Pulling us into the storm We can only watch and wonder. Oh, yes, Old Man Winter is not yet done. As he smiles the smile of those who’ve had another chance to strut their stuff and make their mark.