I stand at the kitchen window, as I always do, in the late afternoon. Today, the wind blows the snow off the tree limbs, and the flakes catch the light of the setting sun so that the whole forest shimmers in panels of lights, like draperies hung from the sky.
I sip the tea my friend delivered–a coconut, ginger, turmeric–and stand to watch that single breeze animate that particular snow, at this time, that will never fall like this again, in this way.
And I watched it happen.
This, too, is a kind of work.