. . . after a few days, the fresh snow is not so fresh.
Melting at edges where you’d think no edges should
be, the snowflakes frozen overnight lose the density
of their brightness. Deer tracks, feral cat tracks, fox
tracks, bird tracks disturb that once pristine snowfall.
The beauty falters. Not to mention the roads plowed
and the rock salt thrown and the gray-black grime
along the edges of the roads. Not to mention that
secret longing the snowfall brought when first
falling to be covered by something as natural
and pure as the snow, the scenes it creates
where everything seems in place and for a moment
– Life is art – is whispered. Each season
has its moments when this whisper is heard.
Especially the seasons of the heart where at least
once in one’s life love covers everything.
-Byron Hoot
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