The outfield starts to vanish in a thickening whiteness. The umpire gets morally confused. He stands with palms upraised, like a supplicant priest, and stares at the fat crystals falling onto his hands. At last, he calls the game, in wonder and disgust.
A snowstorm in mid-April is a kind of outrage. It is a minor perversion of nature. It makes hairline fractures in the order of things. The earth has schedules. We grow offended when it does not run on time, when our expectations are unseasonably violated.
All spring the weather has been weird:...
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