The power of the winter storm never ceases to make me feel so powerless and tiny, so at the mercy of the precipitous air, heavy with hardened balls of fury, pelting down like the sally tears of angry gods, leaving behind ponds full of slush, so thick that it can only collect everywhere, into pools of liquid snow.  There is no puddle jumping on this sort of day, there is no avoiding the giant rivers of slush that mimic the Arctic’s landscape.  Your feet will be soaked, your socks will be ice cube trays for your numbed toes, your boots will need to be dried for days atop the heat vent.  You would pause to look for signs of aquatic life in the river city that you now traverse, except that the blinding wind refuses you to even glance at the outside world.  The jacket is shut up like a jail cell, the scarf has become a ninja mask, your eyes are brimming with tears while you walk backwards, having your broad shoulders fight the front lines.  You could have stayed home, but this frightful storm wanted to fight.