Walking up-campus, wondering sardonically why the cold couldn’t just be worth it and snow–

and as if in response, tiny white flakes wafting down from the sky, not dancing, just falling–

Part of snow’s beauty is in its silence. Rain is a force making itself known to be reckoned with, announcing its presence to everyone, any open surface its percussion set.

Snow is the rain of the wind. The tiniest breeze sets it sideways, stinging into cheeks and necks, snapping eyes open and burrowing into sleeves.

(…Snow is pretty badass.)