Indira Ganesan

Writing, books, and coffee

First Snow

First snow on the tip of the Cape.  Tiny stars of flakes that have grown larger in the half hour I’ve been watching them, drifting in a dance of their own. No wonder Tchaikovsky composed the Nutcracker, because the snow today is a child-like ballet, full of quiet wonder that captivates as it builds to scene after scene.  The snow remains delicate, twirling–a most extraordinary snow or am I watching drift?

No, having stepped out, like an explorer on her suburban terrace, I confirm the weather: snow, as verb, active.

It is grainy, not the texture I remember from Boulder where the flakes were enormous, and signaled storm more than scatter.  Here, I think of ice, but that is because I think of car, and the roads here that seem like San Francisco’s (sort of, because as a friend from Cali once said, oh, people on the East Coast always refer to hills as mountains.) I think of ice only in anticipation of tomorrow, but not being in Colorado, but seaside, I should probably not anticipate.  In general, anticipatory worry is good to put aside.

Dance. Snow. Small flakes.  Season of lights, sugar plums, winter naps.

Still snowing.

Categories: writing

2 replies

  1. first, magical christmastime snow. . . mmm.



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