Winter Scene

Snow brings with it a mysterious stillness that settles like a pall over the wild. As natural as is the inclination to speak in hushed tones at a funeral, quiet falls upon creatures of the earth. The stark whiteness surrounding, descending from the sky, is purity not otherwise seen.

A certain aura inspires reverence. Even small children pause a moment--a second--in awe, unwonted peace in their breasts, before running out to play and slash and roll about. Then there are some who still feel a slight discomfort for having adulterated the smooth white surface. I was one of those; over the years, I came to leave the backyard alone as a sort of offering to soothe my conscience.

Even now, I pick my way through new snow gingerly. For one neat set of tracks in the snow is beautiful too for its simplicity. Retracing my steps, it looks as if I had never gone back.

Standing in snow as it falls, listening, meditating. If one listens one can hear the flakes settling down. Standing for eternity, mindless of the slowly stiffening fingers and frostbitten ears. Heedless of the gathering flakes on one's back, which gather so slowly--and such small flakes!--until they crush, acknowledged too late.

After snowfall, the world is a clear canvas. What a shame it is to see it dirtied by industry into a brown slush. In my mind the one color worthy to break the monochrome is red--deep, scarlet red. The quintessence of life. Shocking and beautiful.

Red. Freshly spilled blood on snow. Bright crimson on stark white, hot liquid on cool ice. Spreading fast, leaking, expanding until the color becomes dilute pink on the fringes of a massive revolting pool.

It snows again and covers it all. Footprints too. Then it is as if nothing had happened.