Tyrannus Rex An overnight dusting of snow has applied a loving texture to underscore complex designs. Seems a shame to disturb it, but grocery shopping and collecting the mail require us to brush the car and driveway clean enough to exit without accident. As we’re wielding our whisk brooms and scrapers I recount my dream. Our scholars’ convention elected Tyrannus Rex as president. In his orange wig he tricked us into believing he was human enough to foster scholarship on the work of Arthur Golding, Thomas Wyatt, and Henry James. When he started gnawing furniture we ran outside into snowfall that prickled with acidic intent. And here we are, clearing enough of that snowfall to enable a normal day of errands. In life, we wouldn’t vote for a dinosaur, even to lead a clutch of scholars dedicated to wasting their lives writing essays no one will read. The sky looks slightly ashamed. This snow isn’t weighty enough to challenge us. On the weekend a graver storm will unfold, and we’ll bend our bodies in all directions to clean up the mess— one elaborate flake, then another.