Snow In-Class Writing

 

The snow sleeps, perfect, pockmarked only by the whims of wind and weather-beaten branches. Soon, a plough will come; carve gashes through its flesh and forge a pathway for the muddling masses trampling heedless, noting what they step on only when it grasps and trips them or nips through cloth in petty retribution. Shaken from its slumber, the crackle of a boot through frost is a joint popping into place after a too-short rest, and with every footfall a whisper: stop, retrace your footprints, leave me as I am an hour more.