Standing in the gray stillness.
Not a whisper in the wind.
Head tilted skyward.
Feeling the cold air wrap around me,
as the fat, multifaceted flakes fall.
Falling on my shoulders, on my eyelids,
on my tongue, outstretched.
I catch one on my sleeve,
and wonder at its intricateness.
It is there but a moment,
before it melts away to nothing but a dampness on my coat.
The flakes are sticking to the ground now,
a preview of what is to come.
I go to sleep that night,
dreaming of great hills of white.
Of pristine vistas of alabaster ice.
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