Weeping rocks, an ice formation along a cliff hidden in a secret canyon along the frozen creek
And today, the snow falls.
Soft as a silk sheet it settles across the fields, smoothing out the stories of the past, like a fresh coat of paint on the old barn, frosting the tip of each spruce needle, collecting on every bulky knot of the aspen’s bark. Sound is reduced to a whisper. Sharp lines and shadows are erased. The world is muted to shades of grey. The mountain eases our faults and settles her burden as her hills are freshened like a white washed wall.
On my mitten lights one perfect flake of snow. For a moment, as solitary as I am.
A snowflake. One in this sea of millions, each we would consider a wonder if only we took the time to see. Now I see only this one here before me, though we are surrounded by so many more, inches of new snow piled on old, all formed by how many of these individual creations, each a tiny miracle. This one, having landed in such a way to capture my attention, invited me to stop and stare for just a moment, to observe its translucent lines and delicate beauty present before me, crystalline white on my old black mitten.
Simple lines, so fragile and fine. Perfection in a fleeting moment.
And in a moment, it is gone. Melted into the fabric that covers my hand, from the warm breath of my face too close in observation. I have nothing left to see. Only millions more, should I take the chance to look.