Snow falls and with it silence. Descending quietudes that seem pulled by their own magnitude, by some releasing breath as if autumn had held all it's color and vivaciousness so tightly until this moment. A moment that sighs into being, as easily as a bow unstrung. It is the days of darkness. Not even 4 pm and already there is a stillness to the fading air, to the bleeding light of day. It is the end of November's hush, and we pad on dampened and delicate feet into December's twilight. The snow, so welcome, falling with more vigor now while my eyes make shadows in the fading day.