The snow started in a quiet way - flakes falling down, sideways, up, and sometimes they disappeared, leaving the air clear. But they returned - and they’d drift slowly as if in a thicker medium - as if caught in a current fifteen feet below the surface of the Sea. There’s no urgency and the wind that moves them is gentle - though every so often there’s a suggestion of something wilder, arriving with a hollow howl and a whistle as the wind rushes through the tree branches and meets the wires that hang loosely between concrete and wooden poles. And like a good story there is something pending - you know it’s there, the something else, the turn in character, the change in environment, the situation, where somebody dies, or somebody gets born, or married, or finds themselves out in weather with no way of getting back home.
