Snowfall at night is transcendent. Neither stars nor moon are visible, yet the world glows. I can wake and know that it snowed in the night, just by listening. On a windless night, each shimmering flake descends in six-pointed perfection to lie glinting, then vanishing, beneath an accumulating latticework of tiny airy crystals. Anything done in such a snowfall is prayerful, blessed with power.
Meditative walks are more cleansing, falling in love more mystifying, good-byes more devastating.
I love cold winters. Driving in the winter rains of Georgia, I tell myself to be grateful that I do not have to endure driving in a Buffalo blizzard, or trying to start a car on yet another subzero morning. I remember the sensation of cold air freezing the moisture in my breath before it leaves my nostrils. I remember snowflakes as small as dust motes, crystallizing here and there from infinitesimal molecules of water on the clearest star-filled nights. I remember the glitter of snow and stars, my heart pumping warmth into the freezing night air, and a boy on a black bicycle, riding away.