Snow

It’s eleven pm. And yet it’s as light outside as if it were morning. The sky is a light, cloud grey and the light cast on the heavy blanket of snow, wherever it’s coming from, is a peachy orange. I am meant to be asleep, and yet all I can think about is the snow and the light and the sound my feet would make crunching through the drifts. Where is this light coming from? Why is it bathing this winter wonderland with its citrus-tasting glow? I want to know the answer. But I know I won’t get one. In my head it is the snow maidens in the clouds, lighting their fires to keep themselves warm throughout their work. Plausible enough for me.