There is no silence as silent as the silence that follows a snowfall at night. Cradled by its blanket of snow, the world slumbers contentedly, not bothering to barely elicit the quietest of sighs. In the sky, the faded echo of the moon peeks over the shoulders of bare oak trees, then moves on in its nightly journey.
Not even the squirrels or rabbits seem to want to disturb this peace at first, waiting until morning to make their paths and mark their trails. I wonder what the owls do. Do they shake the snow off their heads, shifting their feet and shifting more snow as it falls from such lofty boughs? I listen for them, but no one is talking on this night. Embracing the mystery of winter, I shudder in the cold, even as there is warmth in beauty.
