The weather report for Saturday, our wedding day, is ominous.

It snowed steadily yesterday afternoon, a sifting of silver against the pewter sky. Before I went to bed I peered out the sidelights of the front door. All was white, all was soft in the bright lamplight.

The air was already mild before breakfast as my Dear One and I shoveled driveway and sidewalks, for the fourth time in just a few days. The temperatures climbed to about forty and the blanket of show seemed to melt before my eyes.

The weatherfolk chatting on morning newscasts, however, predicted snow, possibly sleet and maybe even ice for February 6. Presently the telephone rang. It was the Court Clerk, the person authorized by the State of Maryland to pronounce us husband and wife.

“Do you have a back-up plan?” he asked.

A back-up plan? When has a wedding ever been delayed due to inclement weather?

“Nope,” I replied. “There is no back-up plan.” Just in case, however, I took his cell phone number. I got the distinct impression that this denizen of the northern reaches of the county was unlikely to venture out in bad weather.

The sun shone and the air had the sweetness of spring. I set up the bird cam; it would be a shame to waste such perfect light.

The weatherfolk did not change their minds. In the evening they informed us that a front was moving in from Texas and that the surrounding area would be under a winter storm watch from Friday through Saturday.

The roses, the vendor informs me by e-mail, will arrive tomorrow. My Lady of the Scissors awaits me at the hair salon as well. A cake needs to be picked up at the bakery Friday by five; by then a nosegay of gardenias for me and a boutonnière for my Dear One should be resting in the second refrigerator. Six bottles of Very Good Champagne are cooling in the garage. The limousine still plans to ferry us to Baltimore on Saturday for a post-nuptial feast and celebration.

We have a plan. We plan to get married.