The exam room is snow-bright - the vast sheet of white behind the building reflects ths sunlight mercilessly. Twin lines of tracks, evidence someone blazed their way through the thigh-deep snow, criss-cross the field, reaching out toward a loading dock in one direction and the road in the other. Nearby a gazebo sits shrouded beneath a white crown. The tracks pass it by.
The snow-sheet, painfully brilliant to behold even with eyes squinted partly shut for protection, is beautiful, broad and unbroken except for the criss-crossing paths. Its surface is lightly decorated with crinkles from wind-blown snow drifting across its surface. The shadows of overhead power lines, barely visible above, stroke across the sheet.
A man in a Day-Glo yellow jacket and hood comes out to scrape ice from the loading dock's driveway. Against the backdrop of the snow-sheet he looks tiny, insignificant.
I never seem to get tired of writing about snow. I should use stuff like this in the story idea I had last month. I sure have written enough of it lately. Thankfully our forecast seems largely free of snow for the next week or so. I've enjoyed this winter stuff, I suppose, but I'm ready for spring. A friend online mentioned being eager for warm weather, the scent of freshly-mown grass, and birdsong. I second that. I can't wait until I can go out for a walk with only a light jacket, or hop on my bike and ride up to the bird sanctuary again.