There's snow on the ground again. Real snow, white snow. Not that road-salt-and-grime-laden kind I'm used to seeing around the east coast of Michigan.
It's refreshing. My view from my window looks clean again. The summer stench of the drainage ditch is covered in five inches of white powder. Nonexistent. Disappeared. Poof.
Under twelve layers, the cold doesn't bother me. I constantly catch a glimmer from every snowflake as I walk past. My family's front yard feels like it's coated in diamonds. Someone has their fireplace going, I can smell the pine burning. Any smell out here is twice as intense when it's against the background of the cold winter.
Every last bit of it is beautiful. Trees stand nude now, willfully stripped, curving and reaching toward the sky. Their stark limbs shiver when they feel a breeze. Even as they chatter, they don't change their pose.
White clouds burst from the chimneys and vents along the streets as they breathe. In the quiet, the wind whistles and whispers at anyone who cares to listen. A few birds hopping around the feeder occasionally tweet back a reply as they flutter through the fresh snow. I watch the tiny points of white sparkle as they fall on their heads, like little kids playing around. Then they see me. With an embarrassed twitch and a flutter, they fly away, over the white roofs, past the white fields, into another white world, just as captivating as mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment