On Snow It is a dark and stormy evening—or at least according to the BBC, it is supposed to be. Somewhere, it probably is; but tonight in Winters it merely snows, dusting the grass in soft crystals and bathing the whole wood in an unearthly shade of silence. It is a warmer night than most, which means that the snow is sticky and wet. It clings to everything, including you, the adolescent boy by the gate that starts when the silence is broken by the damp, heavy thump of a tumbling mass of snow
Sta.sh
