I like to creep out into my backyard in the dark long after everyone in the neighborhood has gone to bed when the snow has begun to roll in, blow in, drift in. I like to stand stalk still and listen to the silence of the late night snow. If I stand without moving, without breathing, I can hear the crystals landing on my coat, on the fence, on the pine needles above me.
The snow doesn't just fall. The individual flakes tumble and roll and dive and spiral and float, as if each one has a distinctive personality, as well as a unique appearance.
A snow storm can bring a city to its knees, but unlike other types of storms, the snow silently invades, like tiny, acrobatic ninjas tumbling in throughout the night, staking out their territory and building walls and fortresses against doors and fences and at the ends of driveways and along the roads and intersections. No one will know of the attack until the morning.
Some will fight back with shovels and plows and blowers as they defend their sidewalks and driveways; others, like me, will submit to this temporary onslaught and enjoy the slow-paced, hot chocolate sipping, pajama day.
For me, the snow is comforting, soothing and cheery. For me, the snow is insulation, keeping out the dark and the gray and dreary. For me, watching the thousands of bright snowflakes fall in the quiet, dark night is as close I can get to Peace on Earth. Over and out...