We are having a snowy day.
I am obsessed and entranced by the quietude.
I only recently discovered that quietude is a thing ~ a real thing.
Sound is muffled by snow.
The sound of snow is a shower of downy feathers, silent symphonies, unsaid conversations, lingering cobwebs.
I think this must be what it is like to be an oyster.
Muffled sound.
Quietude.
Light, dimmed.
Gray.
Incandescent.
A milky luminous suggestion.
Moonlight's most popular shade.
Ivory Soap Bar shavings.
The Saami People have between 175 - 180 words for snow.
It seems to me that we have fewer than seven.
Snow is not always quiet but it always requires that the fuzzy place between idea and articulation,
the living, is at last finally insulated and safe; protected like the fragile and delicate situation it really is.
The physics and amplitude of the living does not cease to be just because nature tossed a quilt over the top of it.
Daughter of Circe 