The Spoonbowl is rarely entirely white-capped anymore, even after what passes for the heaviest snows. Its slopes, so white immediately after a snowstorm? Are always mostly melted by the next midday.

Today's post is melancholy, a testament to the great grief the ongoing, real-time disintegration of our world has spawned. It's also one of forcible, defiant hope, because the world will not survive without it to inspire us: to remember, to reclaim, to renew, and to rebuild.