There’s something wild about the snow. The way it moves through the air, flipping and twirling and whipping around, lighter than the wind. It settles with staying power, coating every surface it touches with the safety of numbers until someone, some stray hand wipes across its resting place. It punishes with biting cold.
Sometimes it pretends to be tame, floating to the ground softly, sweet as powdered sugar. Then it keeps falling for hours, days, and you realize that the beautiful scene slowly building in front of your eyes is really a silent coup d’état, a takeover that doesn’t stop until every last inch of the outside world is under its control.