I just couldn't sleep last night. As diurnal as our world tells us to be, like clockwork, ever so often my legs would bounce and shutter and my bones would bang on the exterior of my body screaming to get out. There's a good opportunity too. A fresh new layer of snowfall has covered Central Pennsylvania, a new reason added amongst the list as tall as the ancient pines and lengthens over the course of the semester, to go run around the woods.
We've often heard people say that they were blinded by color; a psychedelic, piercing, undulating rainbow that attacks our corneas with little needles. However, when you walk through a snowstorm, you become blinded by the absence of color. Somehow, that blank, white, cold mass finds a way to attack your eyes as well.
I'm writing this in one of my favorite writing spots, a small nook in an ancient limestone shelf carved out into a space that could comfortably fit a person. Right now, the snow is slowly falling, drifting down the valley before slowly settling gently on the ground. In warmer days, I would sit in this same spot and watch the gray squirrels fight. They're gone. There's always crows about as well. I like them. I think it's about time we grew out of the "omen of death" thing. Nothing in nature dies peacefully, and we shouldn't blame the disposal system.
The snowfall is picking up, and it has created a blank canvas over the hills, a chance for mammals more sure-footed than us to paint the trails anew. I'll still try to make a mark, but it's a second compared to them. Yet, its a reminder that I was here, and one that will last until spring or at least the next rain.
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