Overnight, like a child, I watch snow drift to the earth, floating and dancing in the soft glow of a nearby street lamp. Peeping through the window, the scene is restful, yet I don’t dare sleep during a rare springtime event. 

If I sleep, snow might not come.

By daybreak, several inches coat my car making it appear fresh and clean and bright. But snow hides secrets, covering dust with sparkle, transforming ordinary to magical. Buried underneath the deep snow atop my car, I know ugly bug splatters mar my window shield, a sign of my recent, long journey to Piggott.

Maybe these splatters will disappear with the melting snow.