My most favorite time to walk is in the dark of a snowy night. It’s lovely to step outside my door, shut it to the noise of phones and televisions and music and appliances and instruments and kids, and just be in the quiet that only a snowfall can give. The icicle needles of the trees gently brush the top of my head, and the crunch of my footsteps is muffled under the soft white piles. The flakes tumble down, brushing aside even the sound of my breath, and I am alone in a neighborhood full of people, walking the paths under the trees, amazed that such dazzling nature is right here, in my own backyard.
Suddenly a cloud moves, and a single beam of moonlight unmasks the shimmering white beneath and above me, and the world is a blank slate again. I turn towards home, my mind free of the jumble of daily thoughts, thinking only of the keys at my fingertips, ready to create. Tonight I write.