THE SNOW REEF...

Under a night sky illumined by the snows of March, the bobcat prowled. Quite agitated was the meager yet solid machine as it pushed the ever-accumulating snow toward the curb.

The curb is not as important as the street and is, therefore, the proper repository for such a temporal inconvenience which, less than three months ago, we had longingly awaited. By now, the snow has become tiresome; it is a guest who has stayed too long. In other parts of the world, March brings rain showers. In Cambridge, all is buried beneath the flood of frozen water, though it never does seem frozen but instead seems softened, malleable. This is how the bobcats were busy moving the snow from the street to the curb.

Cars do not like to drive through the snow. For them, it is a mechanical hindrance. Bikes do not like to ride through the snow. Their tires slip. People prefer not to walk through the snow. Well, it does weigh on one's already tied calf muscles and the obvious threat to pant legs must be considered. But the dogs out on the field, which otherwise might be called a green, between the Leverett towers and Dunster gate, seem to enjoy the snow, regardless of the month. They play frisbee. Their hydraulics appear in fine working condition. Big dogs, labradors for instance, which dash over the bobcat-cleared path and into the frozen, through breachable barriers do sense that the snow is theirs, that they have always dealt with this sort of thing, these natural events, and have not let them stop their daily business.

The public radio station run out of Boston University reported yesterday around 4:00 p.m. that the snowfall of 100 inches has set the record as the largest in Boston history. In its honor, a 100 inch snowman was erected at City Plaza. Logan closed all but one runway, which some may find unfortunate though others will find reluctantly rewarding. It is understandable that people might want to leave this winter scene to spend the weekend where the grass is visible and the dogs are not so empowered. But the bobcats are worth watching, their halogens shooting into the attacking snow as their engines stutter and their wheels squeal in the effort to shovel the snow from street to curb. The dogs won't run on clean streets. The cars will, though. The bikes might still encounter some icy trouble.

We are, then, within the snow. Not that we are encased as one of its layers. But what if, in the middle of the 11:00 shift, the bells of Memorial Church signalled that we were all to simultaneously lay down on the snow and await the next hour's replacement? We would be a layer of snow, part of the landscape, and the dogs could frolic among us, within the snow. Our vision would be crysalline and white, as if we were under the sea though specifically not scuba diving. If we were under the sea, we would be constructing a reef, not building it with our hands but supplying it with our bodies as building material. We would be the snow reef and the snow reef would be us. A living, unified organism within the snow. Bobcats and dogs would prowl on top of us.