It was snowing and the landscape was beginning

to glow eerily with the blanket of whiteness. 


A winter sunset tinted the snow-covered plains lavender

and filled one’s soul with a strange calm.  


In the haze the snowfall created, my father saw a figure cross the farmyard,

moving from the house to the barn.  The figure paused a moment

and placed a mitten on his snow-covered tractor, the jag-toothed

mouth of the windshield bearded with snow.  


My father grabbed snow from the bank of the pond

and ground it into his eyes and into his mouth, swallowed it.




Snow: about an inch of large flaked fluff covering the black asphalt.

I had been driving late and I was tired of the highways slicked with

new snowfall. 




I jogged down the stairs and to the door near


where our car was parked out in the biting near-zero ice and snow.




I got outside and my breath hovered and then condensed


into a fine mist of snow.




When I got back to my room,


I watched the falling snow through the window.




I saw my father walk out among them, the beacon of his cigarette


shining, the large snowflakes crashing silently all around him.