There is something so insular about sleeping through a storm and waking to find the world outside changed. I open dusted eyes to drifts pressed against a window though I did not hear such cold hands creeping in my dreams last night. I find pleasure in seeing the shapes night has taken upon new snow, the sculpted dunes, as if there were purpose in the driving wind. It is so human to find meaning where perhaps there is none, to feel as if each falling leaf and passing flock was meant to divine messages individually. Even in knowing the arrogance of it all, I cannot help but feel special to open my door and find the gift of artful creation delicately placed upon my November lawn.

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