By first light the snowbank looks like a cloakroom that learned to bloom. Each snowdrop bud is offered a white hood no bigger than a thumbnail. The buds greet the snow first. They nod to the gate. Only then does a flower bow to exactly one morning, as if two bows at once would hurry the thaw.
We asked at the kiosk. "I thought the snow had grown a row of tiny coats," said the man who sells stamps and twine. "Then a bud nodded at the latch, the hood slipped back a finger's width, and I realized I had been staring at the whole drift instead of saying good morning to the one in front."
The next morning a neighbor came back with the same empty cup and waited through the greeting, the nod, and the one small bow. She said the snowdrops looked as if they had practiced overnight and still refused to rush.