The snow comes down in a noisy silence like sand in an hourglass.
We can put a man on the moon. We can put robots on Mars and control them from Earth. But when it snows, we slow down, get quiet, even downright fretful.
Is it because it is out of our control?
Is it that the silence demands it? Shouting at the top of its crystalline lungs?
No, it’s because we fear it. One moment, soft, fluffy, full of childhood innocence. It sneaks up behind us and gives us a push. We grip the steering wheel hard enough that our fingers ache. Then, slip, slide, bam, boom. Or our legs get tight, stiff as we try to walk and not fall on our butts.
Those of use who live in the Appalachians have no choice but to fear it. We don’t measure it in light years, or miles, or kilometers, or even meters. No, we measure it in inches. Tiny little inches. We freak at an inch, two. Heaven forbid it get over two. The world is coming to an end if it is anything over six!
The snow comes down in a noisy silence like sand in an hourglass.