Olive Street (view from my bedroom window)

This morning was different. There was a quiet snow falling slowly, steady, and with purpose.  It wasn’t messy or overpowering. Two inches on the ground made the world look shy and delicate. The city was a great sleeping creature with soft fur like that on the back of a cat. It seemed to me that if I reached out my hand the snow might raise up and stiffen under my touch. I enjoyed walking in it.  My feet squeaked rather than crunched.  My cheeks were filled with a rosy chill, but to my surprise I was perfectly warm.  I could stay out here for hours, I thought.

I reflected on the early January mornings in Germany when I would wake to fresh snow covering the surrounding fields like a blanket.  The sky would be bathed in white and only a small gray silhouette revealing the mountains in the distance.

It is no where near as quiet here.  But this morning was still a welcome pause from what feels like constant noise.  Life feels like constant noise in the city.  I suppose it is, to some degree.  I miss the quiet places.