Bonding

Pittsburgh is covered in its signature November slush this evening, a half inch of dirty snow that makes the roads slick as hell but does nothing to disguise the relentless industrial gray of the city. This is not a town that takes a snowfall gracefully. But the flakes, while they were still flakes, still bright and radiant and unique, still riding the soft currents that pass between the houses, still heading down in those slow, stately spirals, these were beautiful to behold, and I decided that Zoogle should behold them, he being a lad of strong body and restless curiosity. So I and Young Goodman Z., both in our skivvies, stepped onto the steps of the front porch, where we stood and gazed in all our billowing manliness at the sky, and I, with great gaiety, caught flakes on my tongue, and he, with great seriousness, caught flakes in his eyes, and his cheeks, and his ears, and his mouth was open with wonder and his hands were clenched in delight, and we were having a great time until the neighbor lady screamed 'get a coat on that kid!' and that pretty much wrapped up our adventure.