The delicate inner-workings of the soft flurries of winter



The pure white snow blanketing the ground

While I walk on the crumbling, crunchy snow, I take a breath that ices its way through my lungs. The smallest little crystalline flakes find spots to rest temporarily on my brow before melting away into a cool, permeating liquid. I don’t know if snow has a true smell, but if it does, I adore it. There’s just something about the freezing cold air coursing through my skin that makes me love the outdoor winter season. 

The sunrises and sunsets are stunning in the dewy summer mornings and hazy summer twilights, but another time of year that seems to get neglected for its enchanting sunsets is winter—especially when there’s a pristine blanket of frosty snow carpeting the ground. The fleecy clouds, in this case, don’t take away from the display of the sun performing its daily routine, but enhances the warm color palette that the sky paints. 

The marvelous magenta and perfectly pink hues blend together for a succinct moment before turning back into the typical marshmallow-cloud winter days. 

The snow seems taken for granted. ‘It’s too cold,’ or ‘I can’t wait for summer’ are often phrases apprehended throughout the winter season. I considerably enjoy the soundless visitant that makes its appearance every year for a few months. 

On calm, windless days, towering oak trees overlook the blank fields collecting dustings of the white powder as it falls from the sky in a soft, universal diffusion. The cutting temperature allows the flakes to cling to the branches; they don’t let go until the sun’s rays coax them off of the limb, and they are then evaporated back into the sky where they emanated from. 

Each individual snowflake is its own. It doesn’t matter if a spoke is missing from its fragile frame. The virtue lies within the sparkles and unique pattern it possesses as its own. 

The virtue lies within the sparkles and unique pattern it possesses as its own. ”

The covered ground is adorned with the uncommon shards, peacefully bracing itself for some variant of huge footwear to crush its inhabitants and mold all the icy pieces together. 

The crisp slow breeze circulates the snowbanks and elevates the flakes into the pure winter air. Wherever the zephyr delivers them, they befall upon the chilled frozen ground. 

The lucky flakes get the chance to be part of something bigger than themselves—not that they aren’t already part of the masterpiece that gives winter its glow. 

Laced in the spheres that make up a snowman, or constructed in the sturdy walls of a snow fort, the flakes find their place; they go where the swirling wind takes them. 

The bitter cold seems to take over the minds of snow-despisers. However, the beauty that appears in the annual winter season is composed as a result of the frigid temperatures—these flakes thrive in the arduous conditions and are elegant because of it.