flake

On the commute home, a large slosh of winter fell on my window, only to be swept away by annoyed wiper blades with their why haven't you changed me yet scream.  Look away from traffic for a moment and see fat flakes quickly replacing the rain.

We live in a funny place, with microclimates so strong, that driving around a corner, like the curve at the base of Observatory Hill, the world can transform from sunny and green, to three yards later, barely being able to see the car in front of you slip on a foot of snow.  

A curve I know well as it's my only way home.  Do these sloshy flakes bode a squall and an opportunity to test these new tyres?  I hope not.  

The light changes, I turn left onto the highway and with a second, the white flakes fall behind.  Smooth drive home to henny penny who has my mitts ready just in case.