Finally, after almost the whole winter with no snow, we have a little bit of white stuff in the neighborhood.
From my window I can see the mountians. They look like someone has taken pieces of black construction paper and folded it, like orgami, rubbing the creases with their fingers so they are sharp and defined. Every ridge, every peak has these sharp triangular edges on them.
After whatever great artisit it was that made the lines in the mountains was almost satisfied they had to make it more incredible.
Over all these sharp lines, over all the angles and creases, the artist sprinkled a heavy layer of wet white snow.
In places, above the tree line, there are thick fields of pure white. Lower down the slopes the artist has stuck in pine trees, sprinkling the white with pinpricks of black and grey.
