Maybe it's morning. Maybe it's night. In a blackened room the scuttling of sleet against the window is a rhythm like rain. Somewhere out there ice glazes over branches, over streets, and as the sun grays out the dark the sky stops spitting and collapses into a thousand flakes as the morning begins with snow.
Snow deadens sound. It muffles, it blankets. It quiets.
And it's cold. Even windless it is numbing, it is a blade across the skin.
And it's gray. Even at the height of the day the white circle of sun stays low, blotted out, caught up in the trees. It is a day with eyes half shut.
But here, I feel you stir, I feel your warmth. I hear the slight change in breathing and know you're emerging from your sleep. And I know if I move it will hasten you awake so I lay still, motionless, capturing this snow day in these quietest moments before the rest of the world notices.
