Winter

Ahh. The blog. Anyway, I figured I'd bestow upon you another piece of genius. This one was written on the plane returning from Japan.

Snow was falling, like it normally did. It was a good snow, with big puffy flakes that spun lazily down, each a work of art, before being assimilated into the growing mass that began to coat the ground. It was the kind of snow that would make magnificent snowballs or snowmen, depending on your fancy.
The trees around the field had long since been stripped bare of their leaves by the changing of the seasons and the wind. Now, however, there was no wind, giving the whole scene the muteness that only occurs in midwinter. The haybales seemed as sentinels in the field. These had not been sold or used, so now they sat, forlornly, being covered by the snow.
The boy, bundled against the cold, dragged a cord of wood on the sled that was attached to his mittened hand with a vice-like grip on the rope.
It was so quiet the boy swore he could almost hear the snow falling. His face, ruddy from the cold had the expression of a man on a mission. His blue eyes were fixed on a point far off in the distance that only he could see. The bit of downy fuzz on his cheeks and chin was not as warm as he had hoped or claimed it was.
The snow slowly filled in his tracks across the field as it continued to fall.