Vermonters call it graupel. It is falling outside my window at work, bouncing like miniature ping pong balls as it hits the asphalt. It looks like a mix between snow and hail, and accumulates quickly as it falls more like rain than flurries. It is only November 5, so I stare out at it in awe, quietly excited about the quick change in seasons.
Then, just like that, the graupel has stopped, the sun is shining, and the asphalt’s warmth consumes the tiny ice pellets.