On snow

I would look out of the window and watch the snow fall down to virgin ground. I would watch the flakes swirl and sway in the eddies that would etch their path up and down the ridges, set like steps across the yard. The snow would sparkle and shine, glimmer in the bright sun. The narrow expanse of the yard would beckon for my gaze, to see the bright sculpture that nature had set before me.

 I would look out the window at the simple beauty, a foreign landscape from the green that occupied my vision but a few short months before. A vision of blades and weeds are now taken by white and drifts that rise and fall with the ever present wind.

I look out the window at chaos. My white dunes now crushed, pulverized. Piles of hard packed crystals, paths beaten into the depths, lumps of uneven size scattered across the small vista that I call my own. Not a space untouched, undisturbed. All is scattered. Banks once rigid are flattened, as if a herd of caribou had made a visit, scattering my calm with their passing.

Kids.