The serenity of a silent snow is necessary for the rejuvenation of my spirit. It is a signal event in the list of storms. No hurricane or summer electrical storm or April shower can claim such irony. No other precipitation comes without a whisper. Yet, in our fragility as warm blooded beings, exposure to the silent and beautiful snow has the potential to take our lives. So why? Why to we love to see it? Why do we not associate the danger? Is it that the white blanket transforms the dry, barren look of a deciduous forest in November? Is it the uniqueness of each gently falling snowflake? I think, all of these things and more. There is something about it that inspires songwriters, poets, painters and at least one art photographer.
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