It didn’t stick. The storm passed overnight, leaving us with a bird’s eye view of the construction site outside our window blanketed with a good inch or two of wet white stuff. All gone by morning.

I read a short story by Elias Farkouh, “The Birds of Amman Sweep low”, in which a group of friends from East Amman descend upon the wealthier, more posh West Amman for a night ‘invasion’. We rambled, mostly in bookstores and cafés, somewhere in between, near the Citadel. No real destination, no trail–just our friend Google–under a near-full moon peeking through the clouds, and the joyful dance of the Birds of Amman.