Snow

I like snow.

There’s something quieting about snow – or maybe, it’s the fact that snow is quiet. It seems to always get quiet right before it snows, and while it snows. There was a hush as I fell asleep last night – an almost deafening hush, anticipating. When I sat up this morning and anxiously clawed at the shade like a little kid to see whether it had snowed, it was quiet as I surveyed the light powdered-sugar dusted landscape. During work, I could hardly keep myself from grazing outside every two minutes to look at the snow-covered park and Victorian-style houses just beyond. I didn’t want to be there in the monolithic building writing vote recommendations for petty suspension bills; I wanted to be at home baking cookies, listening to Christmas music, and watching the snow fall from my considerably larger living room windows. And as I walked from the bus toward home, I felt snow crunching beneath my boots, but did not hear it. The lamplight and Christmas lights on the nearby houses made the white mantle dance like diamonds floating on a fast-moving river.

It’s still snowing, giant flakes from the sky and sticking on the tree outside the window, on the lampposts and cars – making a host of anything without excessive internal heat. It’s peaceful – it’s beautiful – and I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.