The snow is pushed aside from streets and walkways so that it is piled five feet high in places, like small displaced glaciers. Hanging from the roof high above my apartment door are a row of icicles, gleaming like bared teeth. Whenever I pass beneath them I lunge quickly so that a stray stalactite doesn't get the chance to impale me in the eye. But the snow is cold, like the bite of a snake, a stabbing cold. Strange, as the weather isn't as unbearable as I feared it would be. Maybe I'm just acclimatized already, and going back to Texas will be unbearable. I think not, though. I miss the Texas heat, the warmth that soaks to the bones, to the soul. The warm nights thick with the heat from the day, the smell of grass always on the air. I'm ready to go home.