A Time

Snow crunches underfoot, and a kind of hush falls over the valley. Snow drifts lazily down, almost standing still in the air as each flake tumbles a wild, slow, sad dance to the ground.

"This is your favorite season?" she asks, almost sadly.

Looking out across this frozen, sleepy landscape, I nod slowly, breath hanging in the air. Beneath all the white, beneath the freezing blanket, the land sleeps. Trees and grass and wildflowers. They all sleep, beneath the curls of hoarfrost and the spinning flakes of winter's first deluge.

"It is," I reply, finally.

The sun is setting - though at this time of year, it barely even rises. Right now, it's little more than a smear of orange and pink across steely slate clouds. After nearly eight months under its baleful gaze, it's a relief to be able to look upon the burning orb and not have to wince.

Winter is going to be painfully short. It has been and it continues to become moreso. I remember as a child living under the oppression of eight months of snow, and in those cold, reclusive months, I learned to find the subtle beauty, the lonely solitude, that winter affords. It's a time for sleep and reflection.

And most of all, it's a time to be alone.