Outside my window the snow falls lightly.  Puffs of powdered confectioner’s sugar sprinkle down, covering the holly-green hedges like cupcakes.  A giant bakery stands before me.


The bright red berries on the hedges entice me, looking good enough to eat and, though Christmas has ended, decorate the hedges as ornaments do a Christmas tree.


The world outside is a life-size slow globe. Though it is warm inside, I feel the chill of the wind and the soft speckling of flakes swirling ’round and ’round like tiny flocks of birds changing their course of flight in unison.


On the ground the snow is blown by the wind and makes wispy tracks, as though an invisible winter snake were crawling through the cold powder.


Winter has begun; its whiteness the testimony.  Little stick-shaped bird tracks are scattered on the lightly dusted ground.  Perhaps they have come to taste the sweet treats that nature has become and, disappointed by the facade, have flown away again.


There is glitter on the ground now, shimmering in the moonlight like crystal; sparkling subtly as the dim glow of the moon gently bounces from flake to flake.


I look up and see leafless trees; a forest of bare, nimble limbs stretching outward, entwining like one big tree with many trunks.  The thin lines of snow painted on each limb create an uncanny yet intriguing illusion:  White on black; snow on limbs as prickly as a porcupine; light and dark combine together, forming a spray of entangled tumbleweeds.


The beauty of it all contains more than hundreds — no, thousands — of pages could convey.  And yet, an attempt has now been made.


If only the snow fell like this every time; if only we could see it like this always.


©2009 by Eric Beaty


(Written while watching the snow fall outside on my break at work.  This was an attempt at description.)

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