Nocturne
The crunch of half-formed snow punctuated each of our steps on our way to somewhere. Sometimes I lose my sense of direction because I get lost in the beat of the rhythm, the present moment, this luminous instance within which an eternity resides.
Dusts of fine snow sparkled and glittered under the streetlamps and in front of impatient automobiles, yellowed by artificial light and darkened by shadow.
Some months ago I couldn't sleep beyond five hours at a stretch every night. I am naturally intense and a poor sleeper, but for now I have ceased to suffer from insomnia. Thank you to each of you who have written your thoughts, I am deeply grateful. Keep the stories coming, I want very much to hear them.
Looking out the window, I had said, "The people who don't love snow most likely own cars." He had murmured an agreement by my ear. I watched a man struggled with the stubborn engine and the snow on his car, imagining that he wouldn't be in the best of moods. We took turns pointing our cameras out the window. In the morning, a snowman had taken shape across the road and it held a fishing rod dangling with a fish. (The next morning, it appeared to have been beheaded ...)
When snow turns into rain and nows turn into pasts, I will still pause in awe at being alive.
Posted by sniffles at December 01, 2002 08:14 PM