Locals told me that it is not supposed to begin snowing so early, that the harsh cold does not usually descend so soon upon the whole city, but global warming has wreaked havoc. Temperatures have dropped significantly and are expected to fall further than before. This is the first time in my entire life I am seeing snow - it is perenially summer in Singapore - but it is nothing torrential, nothing deeply overpowering, just a few magical petals of white feathers drifting sporadically from the great heavens above accompanied gently by soft drizzling rain, with the poetic reticence of a silent film, as I look out the windows in my protective coccoon of sheltered warmth. It all began so quietly, so placidly, commencing its limpid dance with a murmuring whisper and not a violent bang, before finally slowly increasing in strength and entrancing rhythm, trapping viewers in a wordless sense of awe. I can't wait for the leaves to wither and die away, for the branches to turn sorrowfully bare, as their fate dictates that they should - their death is utterly inexorable, as is their eventual renewel upon the merciful arrival of spring. And so the beautiful repetitive cycle of sad demise and heavenly rebirth goes on forever, again and again, with an insouciant permanence, without respite, without pause, without end.