It was late March when I was at my friend Sara's house in Brooklyn and suddenly great, fat snowflakes pelted out of the white sky as if it were winter's last great yawp before surrendering to April rains. Snowfall has often been described as hushed, mysterious and reverent, but these flakes were so ungainly that if they made a sound, I would have sworn they thumped and bounced on contact with the ground. But somehow, for all their chubby awkwardness, there was something endearing about these fellows. They were like the last of the earnest stragglers who knew they were horribly, colossally late but doggedly refused to give up, until they weebled and wobbled past the finish line. I liked that some of the flakes landed on my camera lens and melted, blurring some parts of the image before I could wipe them off.