I do not always look when it snows. I fear it will stop and the skies will open, paper-thin and blue, and leave me uncovered and cold without reason. Unfiltered sun strikes me hard, always on my neck, tucked in the joints of my fingers. I feel aware of my age—the sun rounded to four point five billion years old. I don't care about the age of the clouds. I'm told anyway that our water could be older than our star. I can enjoy their drift into material and immaterial imagination, flushing their bodies against the windows and onto the lawn. If I could see the spots changing on the sun, maybe I wouldn't fear aging in its way.