Snowfall is silent. Until it's not.

In the last days of January, people in central Arkansas watched as falling snow softened the world outside their windows. Roads disappeared beneath white layers, and familiar sounds faded into a hush. For a time, the storm seemed almost gentle.

The steady cold ping of ice against windows carried through the night. Snow layered over ice and ice over snow, forming dense slabs that clung to rooftops and branches. We were lucky the power stayed on, and our unpredictable tankless water heater--oddly installed on an outside wall in the garage--continued to work, though it often quits when temperatures plunge.

On Jan. 29, as we rolled up into warm balls underneath a fluffy comforter, a thunderous crash around 3 a.m. awakened our household. Our two little dogs, ever vigilant, bolted out through their dog door onto the small porch along the side of our North Little Rock house. Curiously and unlike them, they quickly returned and re-assumed their snug positions on the bed.

It was clear that they knew something but were unwilling to share what they discovered out there. So Philip grudgingly rousted himself and shuffled out the porch door. His reaction was loud and incoherent. So I came out too.

Sturdy wooden railings surround the porch to keep the dogs safe. During the night, several large slabs of snow and ice had slid off the neighbor's roof and landed with enough force to break........

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