I’m lost in the pervading filigree of flakes. The three-dimensional pattern of snow is laced with a touch of vertigo, leaving me with the feeling of falling. I’ve lost my way. I stand in the clearing only feet from my cabin, but the thicker the snow the worse my sense of direction.
I can no longer see my tracks, the wailing of last night’s wind has stopped leaving snow drifts in my path and a peaceful sight before me. No color to be seen except of my own red hat. My heartbeat is my only compass, which finds me treading ground, and a snowballing panic moving me forward.
The sound of not is deafening absorbing both light and commotion. No trace of smoke rolling from the chimney or the giggling from my children making angels in the yard. Which way do I take my bundle of wood? Which way is home? When all I can hear is the sound of not.