"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

20 February 2010

Purple Snow Prose

Flakes blow across the valley in the manner of light feathers and willow-the-wisp. Clouds cloak the higher peaks in phantasmal gray cotton-wool curtains. Outside is the still-quiet, which comes when it snows, and, in a place with only two hundred residents, it's quiet anyway, but even and especially on a snowy deep winter afternoon.

We bundle up for a walk to check the post. It's an excuse and to get out and taste the day, other than the gathering and splitting of firewood. Certainly, we could have schemed for a further trek, perhaps even a snowshoe, but that would have required an earlier start, and there was brunch and mochas to be had, and house to clean. So it goes.

So, we get ready to step out the front door. Everything is gray and still. This won't take long, and the walk in the cold air will be invigorating. The potential for hot tea upon arriving home stands as a sort of reward, or at least a nice treat on a snowy deep winter afternoon.

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