Yesterday it seemed like marshmellow fluff. Today, globs of it caught in tree limbs, it seemed a lot like shaving lather, thick and in many places throughout the park unmarred. I don't think I'd have gotten far if it weren't for a network of ski trails that were tamped down solidly. I wanted to go see the waterfalls because of the smerfy feeling the snow's been giving me, what with every circular object wearing a gnome's hat. It wasn't so smerfy there at the falls, more straight up 18th Century gloom.
There was a moment I wish I'd captured, it was when the dark wood beyond the lake was shot through with the white marks made by a large flock of seagulls, flurrying their graceful white shapes, rephrasing the falling snow in avian form. Once on the frosty lake they were no longer white, not when set off by the white of the lake's snow-covered thin ice.
