There’s a certain satisfaction I feel with a fresh snow.
The crunch under my worn leather boots. The little slip on the tips of my toes from pressing on to the next step is, less the frustration, welcoming. With a minor burn in my thighs from the challenge of keeping my balance in an unpredictable terrain, I love walking through this shit.
A heavy snowfall drowns the sound of everything. Bright lights dim, and sirens whisper. I can barely hear my breath or the scratching on my shoulders from my backpack.
It brings crisp air into the lungs while sprinkling unique, calm blankets of snow onto all below the clouds. Those flaky, titanium white speckles oh-so-gently petal onto a wool coat like a soap bubble that lingers on your toes in a warm bath.
My lit cigarette warms my face as my eyelids cloud and cool from the snow shingles that settle on my eyelashes.
I am fine I guess, and all is quiet and well.