A thin sheet of snow covers the path. Five minutes ago, it was a blanket. Soon enough, it will be a blanket again. The plow trucks will only run for so long. Until then, a sheet of snow, accented by ever growing ridges on each side, covers the walkways. The pattern of the sheet becomes more intricate with each new pair of boots that treads over it. The texture is something of an eyesore with increased traffic, something picturesque with minimal pedestrian activity. Footprints beside the path remain, frozen but still soft as they fill with snow. Footprints on the path are shallow and easily erased, as they will be with the return of the plow. I see the lights at the top of the hill. The plow will be coming down the path again soon. Never mind the ground, though. It is the sky that requires more plowing. The snow is but a symptom of the perpetual grey sky above. I might have known that it was Monday.
Still
remains slippery, despite bags worth of salt on the path. Perhaps the salt is
meant for the carpet, ground by our boots. It doesn’t seem to do much for the
ice on the path, at least not as it continues to snow. Perhaps a bit of sun
would do some good. Once. Even for a few minutes. Snowflakes in the eyes.
Squint. Suddenly, the scenery seems more, how do you say, more scenic. Just a
wash of white, or grey for the most part, with hints of brown, black, a
smattering of green. Ha! Just kidding. There’s nothing green in Houghton winter.
The bitter cold stings anything exposed to open air. Lungs start to burn. It is
a quiet thing, freezing.
