There are many different kinds of snow. Some kinds are good, others are better, perhaps one or two are even a little unpleasant, but all make me smile.
Powder snow, the first of the year, friend to all skiers and snowboarders. Champion of speed, as its cold flakes sting your cheeks and bounce off your goggles.
Crusty snow, that treacherous lot, forming atop drifts and mounds. Always pretending to bear your weight before cracking and dropping you into the loose powder underneath. Walk lightly enough and you won’t fall though.
Yellow snow. Stay away from that.
Slush, herald of changing temperatures, with its distinctive sound as cars slosh past in the city. Water puddles form underneath waiting for the dry feet of the unwary pedestrian.
The sticky snow that’s “just right” is the king of them all. This is the stuff legends are made of. Snowmen, castles, and aerodynamic projectiles lobbed from the mitten, exploding against coats and sticking to hats. The prime tool of art, architecture and innocent anarchy.
Perfect flakes falling. This is a rare one. White on black, crystals on my coat. Snowflakes landing flat on the fabric to display their tiny beauty to the eye. Catch one on the tonge, after all, they all vanish when you step inside.
The sound as I walk through the woods, the smell at midnight as the silent flakes descend from sky, and the stinging cold that gives way to wet dribble where my barrier of clothing has been penetrated; all imprint on my memory the beautiful white of the snow I love.