Last night and this morning, the first snow of the season fell; I do not count the inches from Halloween, disregarding the horror as a pure anomaly. Soft, a sprinkling of powdered sugar upon frozen earth, the flakes give the landscape a beauty, cleanse the air. Though this weather no longer means freedom from the tedium of elementary and middle school, or, generally, an afternoon of rushing down steep hills, rolling about a frigid pool of cold swathed in down, I still enjoy the serenity of the first snow. Fitting with the cold, I baked a pan of boxed brownies, which are convenient and, mostly, are less offensive than other tasty treats of immediacy. The oven glowed, warmed my apartment, as I stay cuddled in my bed, wrapped in old cashmere sweaters my father discarded and handed down to me.
This evening, I wrote my first piece of fiction in months; it is rather short, and I am displeased with the result, but generally satisfied with the overall exercise. Combating stagnation will remain my mantra.
(image taken from Rare Vintage)