It starts the descent from high in the sky, swirling softly in a spiral going round and round until it gently touches the earth and spreads like batter in a pan.
The flakes are large, the size of a quarter or a tiddly wink token, floating gracefully and covering every surface in a white bridal veil.
It could, and should be considered beautiful, a wonder of nature, following a twisting, turning path steered by the wind ever downward.
The evergreens become drooping sentinels, icing sweetly attached to the once dark green tips as the flakes accumulate to weigh down the boughs.
I am inside, going from one room to another, looking out the glass, with camera at the ready to try and capture what the eye is seeing.
Birds and beasts stand out against the ever more pale background, spotlighted by the stark contrast of feathers against frozen white felt.
But there is no joy in this scene for me, it has played and repeated too many times this year for there to be wonderment and awe. Astonishment and gladness at the sight are gone, replaced by sullen, sober sighing.
There is not enough chocolate in the world to make this feeling of melancholy go away. Only the sun can save me from these depths, with warming rays that will open the budded daffodils.
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