A small girl wandered in and around dozens of shrubs, bushes and grasses in our village park. Leaves lay dead in soggy piles like a memory, a husk from a season we had all moved on from. She danced merrily under an ominous sky – dark grey clouds formed an impeccable rink for her performance and she was under a single sunbeam, revealing her overwhelming charm and grace. A single snowflake meandered down from above, landing gingerly on her nose. More and more made an appearance, slowly falling down and covering every blade of grass. As each snowflake fell, puffs of icy wind blew each one under escaped rays of sun, glimmering and adding magic on a dark canvas. A flurry had begun and she danced more, accompanied by hundreds of falling sparkles. She had rosy red cheeks nipped by wind and fingers numb and freezing however, a smile grew on her face. Snow always had a meaning, always had a purpose. Her dad could now remain home, his plane grounded on miles of lonely gravel. Her family would be whole and could have a happy holiday now. All because of some frozen flakes of rain, she could have a merry December. She looked up again, her gaze fixed on rumbling grey clouds and whispered an inaudible message of relief and regard, before dashing home.
Image: by Bonnie Moreland on Flickr Commons