by Debra Kang DeanFifteen miles west of Boston and mostly the news is of small creatures and snow. A self-appointed snow inspector, I tune in to the weather: snow and sun, sometimes clouds or showers or wind or chattering letters that spell chilly. As with everywhere I've lived the forecasters look like Vanna White surrogates or used-car salesmen. Still, they grow on you like poker pals upping the ante— with shifts of pressure. Sometimes the weather calls their bluff. Still, they, at least, seem to know where they are. Right now a light snow is falling, a steady downpour of flakes fine as gnats. To her usual, "What's up?" I give my old friend the usual answer: "Same old shit shoveled a different way." I bundle up. Before I thread my fingers through the shovel's handle, it flashes a conspiratorial grin.
