So I’m sitting here, sipping tea, nibbling a bagel, staring out the window at the kaleidoscope of snowflakes floating and drifting and dancing outside.  Most all of the lights are out in the house, other than a desk lamp and the light over the kitchen sink.  It’s dark inside with just a soft glow, warm, cozy.  Outside, it’s blustery and cold but somehow so white and clean and quiet.  Like the entire world is insulated against noise and commotion, the entire world is a snow globe, perfect and still.

And yet it’s not still.  It’s a flurry of flakes, like little angry ice stars, pelting anyone who dares step outside, tap, tap, tapping against the glass.

Odd, that combination of stillness and fury that is snow.

I love it.  It makes me feel content.  Like the whole world, and hence myself, have been whitewashed by the gods and are sparklingly, glitteringly new.