Snow hides a world of sins.
The flakes take their own time falling from the skies, floating on the wind to find their final resting place in the crowd.
One of trillions, unique, beautiful, ephemeral. In the end, indiscernible from the cold mass.
Sullied by the ground. Plowed. Mashed. Melted. Forgotten.
Only the peaks remain intact, and those too are no more than the abstract leftovers of a cold winter. Decorative. Slow to purpose. Fodder for postcards which pass along a broken message before finding their way to the trash heap.
From high above, the storm clouds breed more.