In places where it is rare, like only once or twice a winter, it’s often an inconvenience. Buses won’t run in it, or their routes will be restricted. There’s not a good system for moving it and keeping roads clear, and the system that exists doesn’t work very well. Cars get stuck and abandoned. People panic-shop for bread and milk (and, judging from my nearest grocery, bananas), then wake to a snowy morn with a horrifying discovery—no coffee filters!
In places where it is not rare, it can pile up higher than people’s heads, higher than people’s homes. It gets dirty with exhaust. It can give the illusion that spring will never ever come again.
On the theory that everything can be an occasion for gratitude if you look hard enough … and the observation that when we were young, we loved some things that we do not love now that we’re old … what is snow good for?
Stillness. The way it quiets the world. Unlike rain, it barely whispers coming down. I walked in the snow for more than an hour last week, and in the near absence of traffic, it it became a contented quiet, like a white gallery wall to showcase the occasional birdsong and the music of a creek and the crunch of my own boots.
Blanketness. The way it covers everything, softens edges, erases boundaries.
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