Its midnight. There is an unusual silence in the neighborhood. Autumn has given way to an early winter, and the first snow of the season asserted itself over the Pacific Northwest. Where there would still be the sound of traffic, only the sound of the wind remains, as it dances through trees and the occasional wind chime, scattering fine, icy powder like a gust over a sandy dune.
A layer of snow covers the ground, enough to reflect the light of streetlights and the moon, casting everything in a splash of yellows and blues. Traffic from earlier in the day had ground the snow into the pavement, creating a slick, icy layer that made driving difficult. A few friends mentioned that their commute took nearly ten times as long due to the, shall we say, unpreparedness of other drivers. Many were stranded on the freeway, giving a distinct impression of an apocalyptic aftermath. At this time of night, no one dares to travel. People are bundled up warm, in their cozy little homes, dreading the promise of what tomorrow will bring.
And yet, here I am. Admiring the quiet beauty of nature, juxtaposed against an old neighborhood on the edge of a major city.