Slippage Byron Hoot It is snowing and time has slipped again, a not uncommon phenomenon anymore but still unnerving when a season is interrupted in its flow and what is next delayed the way this snow is falling. Regression. Yes and yet no; this slippage and this snow joining just so last night, today, probably not tomorrow. I can’t say that about that other slippage though, that’s something whose beginning and end I know nothing of until one arrives then leaves the time in-between unknowable and always different. I may deeply sigh, smile sadly, laugh with a moment lingering memory relishes, forget where I am, say a wrong name, smile like a fool and suddenly find I am where I am – the slippage like this snow . . . something out of season for just a little while.