not one flake on my outstretched hand the snow can't decide when to fall despite Doplar's predictions a chill is in the air the first feel of winter the taste of pine trees traveling on the breeze downhill to my front porch permeating my senses invading my nose and tongue coming out of my ears like steam sticking evergreen needles into my mind's eye 'tis the season to be cold draft's crispness creeping under the door sending a shiver up my spine slipping sleepiness into my yawn with two feet of snow soon to be on my lawn time for storm windows and fatwood and to check my chimney's flow as Meteora lights my fire