Thundersnow

We've had a few snows now. One in October, perhaps two in November, and several this week. The past few days I've watched as the national weather service has issued winter storm watches, warnings, and, to my amusement, "society-impacting" blizzard warnings. I've sat by the windows watching flakes serenely drift downwards, and I've spent time tromping across slippery walks to and from bus stops. Last night, I feverishly set a spiriling path through our glistening front yard, occasionally drifting back to my car in the driveway for a fresh glovefull of snow to eat. This afternoon, I watched the sixth inch of snow land. (We've had more, but it seems a fair amount has be claimed by the mud, salt, sand, and occasional sun.)
But tonight. Oh, tonight was wonderful. As I went about my evening ritual, I paused for a moment to check the snow accumulation. The street lamp across the road illuminated the tunnel of bare deciduous trees that line the drive, all covered with a thick glaze of powder. The road itself was barely defined, a tumbling tread and a snow bank near the far curb. Where plenty of green was visible on the hedges around dinner time, there now remains a lumpy white rectangle. The evergreens near houses are coated, suitable for storybook illustrations. And all is quiet. The snowplows have surrendered, and the only li k to any sort of reality is the out-of-place but ever-important street light. How else could I see the wonderland that exists past my window?
And out of this peaceful surreality, a clap of thunder. Thundersnow. That was in the predictions. All the serenity of snow with the sheer power of a storm. A wind picks up. The trees shake their ghost-arms, yet the snow stays firmly upon the limbs. Perhaps it even glings stubbornly, with an air of rebellion against the storm. The breeze continues, more softly. While the ghost-arms wave gently now, deciduous branches give off small puffs of their white cover. The evergreens keep their blankets tight around them. The world I'm visiting is broken by the movement, the snow no longer calm. Still, I take one last draw from the filled-up, covered-over, pushed-aside world. With that, I rest

And this is why it's a good thing that I never got into creative writing.