If you had been standing next to me on top of a hill the other day you would have been caught in a whirlwind of snow feathers (flakes? seems like such a disappointing description). You could have caught them on your gloves and tongue, as I did, and stood stock still in the middle of a curiously quiet, hushed road with your face up-tilted and felt them brush against your eyelashes. And become dizzy as they rushed past, like fluffy saucers, each one, it seemed, as wide as my hand. And heard the crystalline rustlings as they fell thickly against the dead leaves. A sound so quiet and temporary you had to stand very still to hear it.
The snow didn’t last long. The first of the season never does. Something happened above in the atmosphere and the snow turned to sleet and then to rain and then to something unpleasant in between the two and the whisperings against the leaves became harsh and wet, and my pant legs, moistened, stuck to my legs. And I felt cold all of a sudden.
If you had been with me the next day, you would have caught your breath at a sky uncluttered with those heavy, ponderous snow clouds. It blazed. And the sun shone so fiercely that every leaf, every tree, every bold red berry, was limned in silver and bathed in gold.
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