Dusk was enveloping the city when the first tiny flakes began to fall. I remember looking through my bedroom window and noticing that the naked redbud outside was clothed in a powdery robe of snow that lent it a fragile and ghostly air. Since first snowfalls had always interested me, I curled up in an easy chair and viewed the frosty process from the warmth of my room. Outside, the atmosphere was brittle and clear. The bitter wind of the day had retired for the night, and the snow sifted through the trees in an unbroken pattern, as if it had been poured from a giant flour sifter in the sky. Serenity was everywhere. No sounds penetrated the still air. The lights in the houses seemed to wink at me and tell me that they were warm and comfortable, too, far away from the cold black and white night. Gradually the rough stones in the driveways became blanketed in soft white, and baby drifts were born in the corners of the' neighbors' house, a house whose lines were becoming indistinct as the flurries increased in speed and intensity. Soon the wind, having become tired of resting, entered in a flurry of snow and leaves and knocked on my window. Then it turned and brushed past the redbud, leaving it bare and shivering again.
Manuscripts: Vol. 10
, Article 16.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol10/iss1/16