There is no slanted roof or gutters here to catch these little flakes and clump them together into one white mass. Instead, they float right up to my window and dance around. The wind conducts their movement as they fall fast and then rise up again suddenly, slowly suspended in midair. I sit, front row in a one person audience to this wintry ballet.
And it's funny that I've despised the snow for so long, refusing to see it in this light because of its chilling, bitter season. But every flake is really just a lonely raindrop that shivered as it fell from the clouds, becoming frozen in its liquid motion as it drifted down. Like everything else, they are bound by the cold.
And I'm frozen too, sitting by the window watching the stiff beauty of a dead season. But now I see through it; the snow will melt into water again, the trees will bud and paint the world in green again, and I will get up again and look at other things and move to other places. But for now I will drift with the snowflakes until I slowly thaw and melt back into motion.
