Snow

Well it's certainly not national, but around here there is a lot of snow.
Driving is now dangerous and in some cases actually less convenient than walking. The branches of trees are breaking under the weight of snow and ice that has been pushed on them. And the snow falls ever-softly down.
What I'm getting at is that the weather is terrible, even dangerous, but within the danger I find the most beautiful nature. I can't say exactly why, but I felt compelled to walk in this danger, without a specific destination, only carried by my slight whims. The wind and snow beat hard on my face. The icy layer under the snow crushed with each of my steps only to give way to more snow. Not surprisingly, I came to a wood. I have been there often, and nearly every time there I seem to find beauty, but the dainty prettiness of the wood has always been best viewed under a blanket of snow. I walked through, finding no place where beauty did not stir. I would often pluck an icicle to feel the satisfying crack of ice. then I decided I was done I would not do anything more to disturb the beauty, and as I came to this decision I noticed the irony in it, since my footsteps disturbed more nature than anything else. I came to the creek, which still found the will to flow. It was covered with a thick layer of slush, and here I wiped snow off the ground and reflected. I love to indulge myself by sitting next to such beauty, listening to the subtle noise of nature and simply thinking. To me, the wood showed how God brings beauty out of ugliness and disaster. The wood easily makes me forget the ugly, black slush on the roads, and the extreme struggle of trying to push a car through that mess. No, I would say that snow brings more beauty than anything else. I wish I could have taken pictures of all that I saw, and perhaps I make go out again, but the beauty of an icy xylophone, isn't easily re-made, and now it only exists in the memory and imagination of those who have seen it.
Perhaps I will go out again, but for now the snow keeps falling, covering my footsteps.

...That was strangely reflective wasn't it? Perhaps I've been reading too much of the romantic poetry...

I'm Out