The world can go completely white. But it is more likely we are headed toward one that goes completely black. We will soon run out of fuel to power our lights. We will soon run out of love to soothe our anger.
No sun, not even a pinpoint is visible through the cloud cover. Yet somehow there are shadows. On the sidewalks and on the sides of buildings, shadows haunt the figures they mimic. So we know that even when we cannot see the light, it must be there by the contrasting existence of the darkness.
The snow floats to the ground haphazardly, the flakes can be as big as the palm of your hand. They land on the grass, the brown shoots like spears taller than me jutting out of the frozen earth. I push them heavily aside and trudge onward to the safety of a fallen tree. The snow is gentle, and it makes food scarce.
Whole trees disappear under the blankets of white; whole houses lost in mounds of dusty, powdery snow. Soon cabin fever sets in. Folks go stir-crazy. I knew the storm was coming so I left the kitchen knives out on the front lawn, now buried under the white angel dust.
You would only know the freeway by the tops of the street lights, radiating orange triangles on top of the great white plains. This place can be so desolate. Even from the airplane window where I can see for miles, there is no sign of movement down there, no sign of life. If this is a city, where are the people?
If we put snowshoes on and set off from our rooftops, we would be taller than the street lights, taller than the oaks. We would be champions of the world. Kings and queens ruling kingdoms and queendoms of snow and ice. Icicles our mighty swords, toboggans our valiant steeds.
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