Everybody's talking about the weather. OK, it's colder than a Slurpee enema here. Get over it. Instead of griping about the roads or the shoveling, I'd like to call your attention to the sounds.

This morning I carried a rubber squeegee outside to scrape a windshield, and it made a noise against the glass, HONK, that it doesn't make any other time. The crunch of the show has a high-pitched metallic ring to it, like a thousand tiny brittle cries.

Peculiar things happen below zero degrees Fahrenheit. Noises carry farther and reflect perfectly off distant objects. I felt a little like an astronaut this morning, and I forgot about the cold for a few moments to enjoy the unearthliness of it.