In which we swap sun for snow & other softness.

December. Headed to work at quarter to nine as the night starts to lift. It smells like wet wintery coldness and I can feel the wind tickling its way through the gaps in the scarf wrapped around my neck. Morning pump-up tunes trickle through freezing headphones and I bounce all the way to the S-Bahn.

My favorite local grocer -- radiant rainbow produce no matter the season. Walking past on the day of the first big snow, I chuckled to see all the green pinky mangoes awash in crystally fluff. It's a cozy, welcoming place and the owner knows by now to start packaging up a homemade stuffed pepper whenever I come in -- loaded with rice and spice and everything nice and roasted to flavorful perfection punch. The best dinner solution when the time or energy to cook is lacking.

 

When the sun does come out, it doesn't just meander its way across the sky, nonchalantly shining on this or that. Oh, no. It throws out all the stops, blinding you with loud rays of "I'M HERE!". But then it gets tired, or bored, or hungover, or chooses some other lame excuse to peace out of its own party by 15:30ish. We're talking December.

 

 

 

 

 

But mostly December looks like this, give or take the white stuff. The gray of November darkens behind streetlights, muffling footsteps, slowing time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Admiring old limbs veining their way through the sky in a web of river beds -- from a distance, mind -- always a excuse for a stroll in the park.

 

Sun is great and important and all, but my favorite time/weather happening is late dusk with fresh snow, when everything is dyed blue, again, and again, and again until the blue loses its hue to the night. It's an unnatural color that only appears under these circumstances, and cannot be adequately captured by any camera. Not without the air. Not without the quiet.