I am on my couch, looking out my window. The snow comes down, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, like the sky and ground tumbling together in white sheets. Just outside the window stands a mammoth, gray, gnarled oak that wraps the smaller trees in its limbs. One dead leaf clings to a small branch.
I sit on my old, worn couch in my tiny apartment with all the windows open, watching the snow fall sideways like some people watch TV. It’s an angry snow, the kind that slaps your face like a jilted lover. The trees stand weary in their white shawls. Any buds that sprouted with hope have withered, shaking fists at the capricious sky.
But snow is beautiful. The beauty is that it falls.