The sun is lost behind a thick, white sky, and the earth is cold. The first snow is falling, and as I walk, I watch the green grass slowly disappear under an icy blanket. The little pond—no water fowl swim there now—ripples under the featherlike deluge; soon it will grow very still, cold, solid, dead, but they will dance there, on their skates, laughing in the warmth of their exercise. Children’s rosy cheeks and merchants with hot drinks and roasted nuts, they are a future joy, things that come in time. For now, it is cold and grey. A few others are out with me. The old stay away, the young are at work or school, but some of us can’t resist the call when winter sends the first flurry. I’ve already caught a snowflake on my tongue, and now I meander under the barren boughs along a sidewalk slowly growing wetter and more slippery at every step. I try not to think too much of Christmas or the future at all. There are other times for planning gifts and trips. Right now, all I want to do is take it in, to know the devastating beauty of walking in the snow.
Walking in the Snow
Tale Told 