Slicing snow trail fresh, through keen air we shushed ahead. She and I, in deep night, all else abed. Light gray above, White gray below, trees winter dead. We shushed ahead. Then stopped. Silence. We looked around. Snowflake clusters, in moon glow, sifting down. Then heard snow meet snow upon the ground. Heard? That cannot be so! Yet so it seemed, at twenty below, though none else out to say ’twas so, those flowing ages and ages ago. Cold, she and I listened still. Colder, we shushed back (almost against our will) leaving this memory with me still, a snow sound memory with me still.
© 2023 P. A. Ritzer
Snow Sound Memory