You don't expect snow where I live.
You don't expect snow where I live. It happens north of here. OK, sometimes here too, but you don't expect it. Then the sky darkens, grumbles, and dumps it on you.
When the sun returns, the light is needle-sharp, but all the detail is gone.
"Do you know what she did?" Who?
"You deserve better." Nobody deserves anything. You get what you get.
I got snow. I do not intend to sweep it aside and reveal what is dead and dying. I intend to make tracks.