True, a fresh winter snow -- the puffy kind that's impossibly light and sparkles blue under the streetlights -- is among the most beautiful gifts nature bestows. But we get too much of a good thing up here. And that pristine sparkle always melts into a semi-solid mass of mush, mottled with a color best described as gray-brown, that builds up behind a car's mudflaps and soaks through the thickest boots. So most of winter is a collage of gray: gray in the sky, gray on the ground, gray on the cars, gray in the brain. No wonder that this time of year, I crave a different kind of natural beauty. Color. (Tulips. Erratic dandelions. Bright green of springtime leaves.) Smell. (Freshly mown grass. Unlikely, happily stubborn hyacinths.) Sound. (Birds! Crickets! Children playing kickball.) No wonder an art class is such a good idea (particularly) at this time of year. Even just my amateurish sketches help break the bleak spell. And it gets me out into the gray long enough to enjoy time with a friend. And, of course, friendship is a kind of beauty, too.