I'm not speaking of our esteemed big flake still throwing tantrums in the White House as of the date of this post. Just snowflakes. The bigger the better to lighten my mood, especially when they fall in windless solitude like this. No one else is seeing these flakes fall but me and whatever wildlife are watching too. Steller's Jays are about it as far as the ones I can detect. Maybe a glimpse of a rock squirrel scouting better places to hole up for winter. A mule deer is out there still hanging around someplace too. Whether she is watching is anyone's guess but it is likely.
I saw my first heavy-flaked, still-aired snowfall in Dillon, Colorado in early fall, 1973 while playing hooky for a few weeks. Flakes at least the size of quarters floating from the black night sky at what seemed too slow a pace to fully account for the influence of gravity. As mesmerizing an event as it was, that only vaguely describes it. I stepped out of the little lodge I was staying at to go to the grocery store across the street, unaware it had started snowing, then suddenly there it was all around.
A wave of subliminal softness washed over me, sparked by pre-birth memories, perhaps. I like to think so at least. And surprises like that are what I live for now, having witnessed more than enough of most everything to be jaded and bored by too much in the world–especially people and their flaky ways. In Dillon there were people out enjoying it the same time I was that night long ago. Nice people. Quiet and reserved in their reactions. All I could do was stand and grin. Which is what I did while this flurry lasted. With no one around, the experience was ideal.
