Snow Angels Snow on a cold day is no good for making balls. My son throws it anyway, handfuls of powder dispersing in plumes. He does this many times, enjoying himself, unaware that madness is repeating things in the hope of different results. Like making snow angels, which I cannot do. He falls on his back to show me, cuts a billowy skirt and Visitation wings with a wave of happy limbs. But it never works for me. Watch as once again I make the print of a small, splay-legged thing scrabbling on its shell, desperate for purchase.