Looking west.
While snowshoeing yesterday, I recalled the Conrad Aiken short story Silent Snow, Secret Snow, which for some reason I felt drawn to as a kid. I took it to be the story of a boy who withdrew from the ordinary world, whether because of deafness or craziness or maybe just an overactive imagination. Again today it snowed. Softly. Continuously. Silently.
I didn’t get out. Got tied to my desk. Billing. Sending out paper solicitations for payment. A necessary evil—but oh, so evil. Especially because it meant I didn’t get out.
So, no birds on my list today. Just the vision of gentle snow subtly accumulating. Perhaps three or four inches by nightfall, when I did manage to leave the building. The cool air sweet and fitting. The snowflakes were tiny cold kisses. No creatures on the wing after dark, though. At least not at this time of year.
The temperature stuck in the 20s (F)—up to near freezing late. Snow still settles gently down as I write this, at 11 p.m. Silent, in secret. Muffling the sounds of the traffic along Route 1.
Tags: snow
