's' is for snow-storm

tell me this isn't so, this isn't snow.



it's soaring down, not floating, aggressively beating down everything in sight.

and worse yet, it's sticking.

the woman was herding her small-jacketed husband across the parking lot. she shoved her purse under her arm and waved at him to hurry through the rain that smelled of snow. he pushed the cart, one old hand grasping the handle, the other balancing two shiny-and-new yellow garden hoses which were perched atop four enormous bags of potting soil. he slid down the wet, uneven pavement, pulling up his pants as he followed his spring-stepping woman.

the latest photography of henry greene.