My foot sinks into the snow, destroying the smooth perfection. The road is clear, as no one has ventured out this early in the morning. I feel alone in the world, as though everyone else is asleep. The snow has slowed to a soft flurry, but the sun is still fighting unsuccessfully to tear through a thick gray blanket of cloud. For now, we are trapped beneath the blanket in this quiet world of snow. The evergreen trees in the distance, wearing a coat of needles, mock the cold leafless ones, but the bare branches have tiny icicle jewelry sparkling in their defense.
Beneath my umbrella, wrapped in a warm scarf, I am cold- but there is no biting wind, and I relish the feeling of each tiny snowflake on my cheeks. Everything stands still but me; this pure perfection is mine, and mine alone. Even the birds are huddling in their homes for warmth.
I decide to follow suit before my silent solitude is ruined. I go inside, kick off my snowy boots, and put another log on the fire before crawling back into bed. My boyfriend, still half asleep, wraps his warm arms around me and I drift off, dreaming of my own exquisite winter wonderland.
Written for my art class as an art criticism exercise of entering the "World of the Work." Inspired by Alfred Sisley's "Snow at Louveciennes," shown above. I'm not incredibly happy with it, but it'll do for a quick in-class exercise in writing.
