Fine, wet snow falling. Snow like sifting sugar, adding to last night’s on the lawn, filling in the footprints, whitening the paths I shoveled earlier in the drive. How it comes on harder then, how the branches droop from the weight of it all, a slow procession like life itself. The clocks ticking all the while. And no other sound.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, existentialism, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, prose, William Pearse writer