Snow falls, thickly, slightly, softly, padding the night
with a weak blue suffused light. On the horizon a lamp
of snowflakes reflects the local hockey rink’s blaze,
a bank of radiance in the white black of the sky.
The sound of keening skates echoes, followed
by the slap of puck struck and hollow boom
as it hits the boards—otherwise all is silent
as spinning webs and silent stars rain in slow motion.
You pretend there is enough time to count
each flake as it falls; throughout your dreams
it will continue to fall until you wake next morning
to a brilliant new landscape made of crystalline
light and all that remains of Winter’s transformation
of the night.

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