The snow is falling

The snow is falling. I thought it would never come. For some reason, I am convinced anew every year that winter will never come again. I am surprised by the invasion, even though I shouldn't be. Millions of moth wings float to the ground, covering it in their iridescent dust. They whirl through the air, dancing and avoiding the ground. Little currents come up, licking them back toward the sky. It turns out to be a passing promise. The flakes continue down to the dirt to melt.


Ice is starting to cover the roads. The police have stopped counting the number of accidents. It is not surprising; people always find a way to crash in burn in even the most innocuous conditions. Right now, the layer of snow is just a tease, a dusting. More moth wings are promising to come down, global warming or not. We will not be neglected, at least this year.


I can hear their voices, soft and lulling. "Settle, softly, sigh". You will miss me when I am gone, they whisper. I can't hear them with my ears. The echo is in my mind. It is heard so quietly, I have to strain to hear. It is the sound of millions of voices. No single voice says anything in its entirety. Each voice breathes a part of a word, a millisecond of the whole. You have to concentrate to put it all together. The sounds pulse softly, like a faint heartbeat. They create a tune – one that you've heard before but you can't quite remember.


You want to walk into the woods to that sound. Maybe lie down and let the moths encapsulate you. You can lie in your cocoon, forgetting the cold and curling yourself around your own steaming breath. As you lay there, you forget about the places outside your new domicile. Your memories blur and parade before you like an old VHS tape, distorted and jumbled and lacking a sound track. Of course, you cannot hear yourself. You are surrounded by the moths singing you their lullaby. Lie still, and we will hold you. Nothing else will matter but you and us; we can shut out the world with the blinders of our wings. We will make the world one color, muted and stoned.


There are different intensities of the gray, even some tinge of hues. The red brick looks like it is forgetting how to be red. But the green of the holly bushes revolt – they scream green in a world of gray pillow stuffing. The leaves refuse to be silent and forgotten.


Traffic is rolling now. The discarded wings are being torn and soiled by the tires. Someone will put salt out on the asphalt, dissolving the veins in the wings. They break apart and succumb to the slashings of the tires and the plows. We fight back stubbornly, wanting to still get to work or the liquor store despite the onslaught of the moths. Why would such little things presume to interfere with us? Most people don't hear the music or the heartbeat in the air, nor do they care to. They don't stop to acknowledge the apparitions. Eventually, the moths give way. The heat and sun overcome in the end. Even the last little colonies in shady corners sly away. But they promise to come back to us again. My ears are ringing with the silence of their leaving.