Feeling foolish, I looked outside my window through the flimsy film of fleeting flakes frozen on the frigid film of glass separating me from the wintry mess outside.
It is as if a flask of flutes are flanking my abode, flipping fluffy, frigid shapes, leaving them floating and flitting about, flirting with the fleeing wind. Giant flaps of snow have been flying and flailing, contorting themselves into their final destinations of feathery forms four and five feet high. Finding fortitude from the fact that Jack Frost feels more fabulous in February, the formerly flamboyant, icy figures find firm flecks of flashy fixtures upon which they will flop, flinching with a final flounce.
