The snowflakes drift.
They crystallize miles above my windowsill, crafted molecule by molecule by nature’s tender hands. Their tips shine like polished metal blades, sharpened and deadly but also serenely beautiful, not unlike the gleam of a brand-new carving knife ready to change and shape. Their centers bear perfectly symmetrical patterns, embroidered with the utmost delicacy, each flake distinct but uniquely pristine. Their miniscule arms reach out to embrace the freezing tempest outside my window, every branch glimmering with a certain unexplainable serenity amidst the howling winds.
Some of the snowflakes land on my windowsill.
I watch as they expand to cover the faded white paint over the sturdy birch wood. I watch as they hesitate — momentarily, almost unnoticeably — and then descend back to the world as tiny droplets of water, clinging to the edges, but eventually joining their former selves in the gray, misty sky.
Sometimes the wind blows the flakes, subtly most of the time, but occasionally in large gusts, sending a swarm of beauty crashing onto the glass of my window and the bricks of my apartment. The snowflakes are propelled through the thin fog, their arms sometimes resisting the push — but they inevitably fall to the ground to become droplets, sometimes prematurely.
But the snowflakes are powerful. In the few minutes of their drift, they float spectacularly. A few of them settle into the nooks and crannies between pipes and sometimes buildings, observing the ever-changing sky around them and the complicated city that had already been built in all directions until a gust of wind, maybe a stray drop of water, or the warm blast of an air conditioner brings them back into motion. They shape the rooftops and the windowsills, their molecules becoming icicles and soft flakes, showing the world the tranquility that winter brings. They stop time, their observers awed by their intricacy, their fleetingly short existences captured forever into photo albums and newspaper articles. They fight the merciless wind that pounds them and the powerful forces that force them to the ground. But ultimately, they will succumb.
I sit at my desk, observing the city around me, a city bustling less than twenty-four hours ago but now stunningly transformed. Another notification ticks onto my computer; another email finds its way into my inbox. Yet another mass shooting, yet another COVID variant, yet another uncovering of horrible crimes.
I keep watching the snowflakes.
The snowflakes keep drifting.
They crystallize miles above my windowsill, crafted molecule by molecule by nature’s tender hands. Their tips shine like polished metal blades, sharpened and deadly but also serenely beautiful, not unlike the gleam of a brand-new carving knife ready to change and shape. Their centers bear perfectly symmetrical patterns, embroidered with the utmost delicacy, each flake distinct but uniquely pristine. Their miniscule arms reach out to embrace the freezing tempest outside my window, every branch glimmering with a certain unexplainable serenity amidst the howling winds.
Some of the snowflakes land on my windowsill.
I watch as they expand to cover the faded white paint over the sturdy birch wood. I watch as they hesitate — momentarily, almost unnoticeably — and then descend back to the world as tiny droplets of water, clinging to the edges, but eventually joining their former selves in the gray, misty sky.
Sometimes the wind blows the flakes, subtly most of the time, but occasionally in large gusts, sending a swarm of beauty crashing onto the glass of my window and the bricks of my apartment. The snowflakes are propelled through the thin fog, their arms sometimes resisting the push — but they inevitably fall to the ground to become droplets, sometimes prematurely.
But the snowflakes are powerful. In the few minutes of their drift, they float spectacularly. A few of them settle into the nooks and crannies between pipes and sometimes buildings, observing the ever-changing sky around them and the complicated city that had already been built in all directions until a gust of wind, maybe a stray drop of water, or the warm blast of an air conditioner brings them back into motion. They shape the rooftops and the windowsills, their molecules becoming icicles and soft flakes, showing the world the tranquility that winter brings. They stop time, their observers awed by their intricacy, their fleetingly short existences captured forever into photo albums and newspaper articles. They fight the merciless wind that pounds them and the powerful forces that force them to the ground. But ultimately, they will succumb.
I sit at my desk, observing the city around me, a city bustling less than twenty-four hours ago but now stunningly transformed. Another notification ticks onto my computer; another email finds its way into my inbox. Yet another mass shooting, yet another COVID variant, yet another uncovering of horrible crimes.
I keep watching the snowflakes.
The snowflakes keep drifting.
