The white stuff

It snowed last night here in Rome. Just a centimetre or so. Not a romantic white blanket; more a grubby bedcover that the dog had been chewing on. Down in the scrub near the river, where we walk, we were not the first to leave tracks. The feral cats, fed each day in munificent abundance by the old ladies of the district, had been out all night doing whatever it is that feral cats do all night. The cars were the best, each of them with white roof and windows, shining softly as the sun came up.