Three to Six Inches

This morning, I laced up my rugged winter boots and tugged on my soft-green knit cap. I stepped outside and walked toward the nearby pond. At first, I tried to keep to where I guessed the sidewalk to be; but the snow had erased all the lines and bestowed freedom to walk anywhere. Sometimes I made my own path, and sometimes I trod in the footprints of those who had already ventured out in this winterscape. I imagined a father and son, enjoying the snow in the morning before the boy boarded his school bus - the father walking slow, making large, distinct prints, and the son scampering, shuffling, leaving a line of scuffs in snow too high for his small stride. As for myself, I walked in solitude. I saw the last fallen leaves of autumn, indistinct under the layer of snow, as if a bleached cotton curtain draped over them. I saw bright red berries topped with white woolen hats and evergreen fingers boasting chenille gloves. I praised God for giving these cold climes the flora that wear the fashions of winter so well, these buds and branches whose bright complexions are not made sallow by greys and dusty whites surrounding them. I saw traces of life - the perfect pairs of indentations left by rabbits' hind feet, the flock of geese frozen out of their favorite pond, the tracks of a little person running around the yard to the trampoline to jump, jump, jump in the snow. Across the steely sky, church bells chimed nine. Time for work, but taking in this dawn of a new season merits a late start. As I trudge home, toe to toe with my outgoing footprints, a new snowfall flurries and blusters around me. The drivers of the cars passing me may pity the girl who has to walk in the snowstorm, but I... I tasted God's beauty like the snowflakes on my tongue.