It didn't snow much in Madison this afternoon, a few flakes here and there, scarcely more than flurries, an inch at most. But you could tell from the light that something was on its way.
THE sun that brief December dayAnd then the real blizzard hit.
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
-- John Greenleaf Whittier