There is a quiet knock at the door of autumn. The last bronze leaf falls from the oak, the sky turns the color of hammered pewter, and a hush falls over the world. Winter has arrived.
Then comes the snow. At first, it falls tentatively, single flakes that melt on contact. But soon, the sky opens up, and the world is rewritten in white. Snow is the great eraser; it blurs the sharp edges of our human world—the parking lots, the trash bins, the busy roads—and replaces them with something pure and silent. It clings to tree branches like lace, piles into soft drifts against fences, and turns the common streetlamp into a glowing orb of amber magic.
In the city, winter is a symphony of muffled sounds: the crunch of boots on fresh powder, the scrape of a shovel on a sidewalk, the distant hiss of tires on slush. In the country, the silence is absolute, broken only by the snap of a frozen branch or the call of a lone crow. Because the outside world becomes so hostile, winter drives us inward. And that is its secret gift. The season forces us to retreat, to nest, to gather.
And, of course, there is the fire. Whether a crackling log in a hearth or a video of a fireplace on a television screen, the fire is the heart of winter. We stare into its flames, hypnotized, as it paints the walls in shades of orange and shadow. Winter is also the season of festivals. For many, it is a time of twinkling lights strung across rooftops and evergreen wreaths on doors. It is the smell of pine needles and gingerbread, the sound of carols in a shopping mall, and the frantic joy of wrapping presents.
