Flakes were drifting down. The skies were low, the air was damp and hanging over us like some kind of doom. That’s what I like about the winter: the quiet sense of consequence, as if we are going to be called upon at any moment for something, who knows what.
The wind shakes the few remaining leaves–that motion is a poignant thing. The cold wind, the bare branches, the withered clinging leaves, the cheerless light – all awaiting something grim. It’s coming, and it is what I am waiting for, prepared.
I saw the yellow blade of a plow on a new big truck. I don’t know why he was running around with a plow on, though, the snow is not here yet. But it is coming. Winter is coming and even now its harbingers stalk among us. They tell us it is near, like something tremendous and draped in the huge shadows of the wings offstage for the moment.