The falling snow threatens to unhinge me. I mean in the way the creak of a floor in early morning might or the sound of coyotes scavenging about in moon light. The way they do all night so near the house. As if they had nowhere else to go.
And now this. The first dull light of dawn is breaking through the branches and with it snow spitting out from the darkness. Such happiness you think something so pure should bring but only the foolish or naïve would seek solace in such a lack of warmth.
And then there is the quiet. The silence. As is if anyone could endure such stillness. It comes to nestle among the fir and alder trees, to slowly smother the new green grasses. Then a withered leaf drops from a branch, twists in the wind, and is taken aloft. Vanishes into a flurry of white. Gone. I mean it disappears in a way that threatens to unhinge.