Snow is sweet, here in the wild outlands of Colorado. It means balance; that the world is not so far out of whack as it might seem. It means that the pinons, the cottonwoods, the aspens, the black currants, the willows and wild roses and horsetails and all of the other green creatures along the creeks are getting the liquid nourishment they need to thrive. It means the bears are a little happier, a little less stressed. It means the deer don't have to range as far to find what they need. It means a little less worry during the fire season. Snow in rural Colorado is a blessing.
But even with all of that, no snow is as sweet as city snow, on a city night artificially lit up by thousands of lamps, neon signs, headlights. City snow quiets the roaring, gnashing, whirring, clunking, buzzing hum of ever-present machinery; populates the grimy pools of the streetlights with ethereal motes of dancing, twirling, God-given magic; tucks the sharp edges of the city away under a soft, fluffy blanket of what is good, and pure, and true.
City snow says: "even here, you are still part of the world".
Photo by Andre Benz on Unsplash
