In Which Snow is Softly Falling

Before the roads turn slushy and slick… 

Before grey skies loom so pervasive that gloom seeps into the soul, obscuring the memory of sunshine… 

Before the drifts stain with brown and black (occasionally yellow)… 

There is a certain pristine magic to snow. A certain silence rich in hushed affirmation of beauty even in the bleakest weather. A gathering of white crystals tracing inky branches with a layer of lovely.  A bracing pause. A season. A something more that isn’t yet but soon. A wet whisper that clings to your coat, your hair, your eyelashes–but melts when you step inside the door. 

   
    
   

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