White is falling form the white skies. The first time this year it comes in great numbers, covering the view outside my window with a fluffy blanket of cold cotton. The night grows light as the white mantle descends on the land.
On the morning already it is melting fast, sucking the warmth out of the cold air. It drops and dribbles, nibbles at the stone it kisses. Softly the cold lips take what the may and disappear. Here, at least.
Elsewhere, I am sure, the solid clouds of ivory will keep the land hidden for much longer. Time to grab my board.
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