What precipitation. A tinkling cold that comes down from dark clouds in chips bigger than flakes, glinting like the mica of our nearby hills. Settling into hair like freezer burn, a head not properly wrapped for this weather. Shake then and watch the crystals fall, glinting in the muted daylight. The scrape and trudge of shovels across pavement breaks a silence built of cloud and ground cover. Frozen water wishes us hush. Anon, clear path accomplished, tintinnabulation sparkles alone again. I want to shake the trees.

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