I love the enchantment of a rare snowfall. While some people see it as black magic, I see it as the essence of purity. All the drab, blackened trees wear dollops of white mounds, the browned shrubs alive with diamond-encrusted tips. The earth becomes hardened yet soft with the feathery flakes that become one stretched milky palette of fresh paint that covers all flaws.
People on the streets are smiling, laughing even as they throw snowballs at each other and sculpt rounded caricatures and forts. Children (and adults) are delighted to toboggan down steep hills, the entire community can be seen on the hill’s top, having conversations and competitions.
I know driving is no fun, but when you’re not on wheels, it’s a treat for all the senses. The scent of the crisp air, the reverent hush that surrounds everything, the reflection of the sunbeams against the powdery surface, crystals on your tongue, Winter’s cold breath on your face soothes and awakens like a fresh sprig of mint. I just see the beauty of it all until I slip on a patch of ice lurking on the sidewalk.
blaak sheep 