The Snow Fox
A sudden flurry tonight. After another long day I went to unwind with friends, now good friends since last weekend. The warmth of feeling more used to people, the shared knowledge of having got under each other’s skin, of having broken through some imaginary barrier, the ones we spend years carefully building. Our defences. But sometimes we wonder why they’re even there in the first place. A fence around a lawn that noone ever visits. Yes, a warmth. One of the greatest feelings when you know there’s no God, when you know there’s only one life, then friendship and love are the strongest forces we know.
And in some freak of circumstance the snow drove sideways across Whiteladies – never losing its power to impress – driving so hard, yet so soft, so silent. And I not expecting it. Wholly bowled over by its wild, incessant whirl. Stopping to admire flakes upon flakes passing through the lamplight and my face tilted upwards as I’ve seen in imaginary pictures of me in a child in a royal blue and red bobble hat. Tasting snowflakes for the very first time. And homeward bound but not wanting the warmth or the prosaic of the white walls when I could be here in a lost whirl. I walk again round and round. Up streets I know but look foreign. A new aspect. With the wool of my black scarf glistening I turn into my small road. The familiar last trudge. And there, like a ghost, like a toy or a cardboard cutout from an old Eastern European storybook, like a spirit from an older world, she stood. A silhouette. Such dainty legs. Triangles for ears. And that overly grandiose tail. As still and silent as freshly settled snow. Framed by a row of cars. And the snow keeps falling while we look into each other. A beat. And she’s gone. Her pawprints cross my boot marks. And the snow covers it all.