This morning the wind bit through my jacket. Held tightly against my still waking body by the strap of my bookbag, the corduroy did little to impede the chill air. The pleasant side effect was a blast of cold air on eyes dried from cheap heat turned on high in the night.
A friend of mine, much more awake then I, came bounding towards me.
'Dude, what the heck?' he said, hands firmly in his pockets searching for warmth, 'Its friggin' cold, and check out in front of fisher'
Before I could muster a tired reply he had passed me for the warmer climes of the dorm.
For those of you more distant than Harbison Blvd. or Jammin Java, and may not of heard the momentous event that took place outside of fisher, I shall henceforth describe the glorious scene.
Sprinklers left on in the night had delightfully left the whole Quad radiant in the hastening light. The yard of grass and the bushes closest to sprinklers shone like a dew of diamonds dancing from boughs of tree to blades of grass. Amazingly, despite my illustrious and over dramatic description, the whole scene only drew a small crowd as people passed commented excitingly, and hurried to their classes. After briefly taking in the scene (we're talking seconds here) I moved on, hoping to find a seat before the lecture began.
After class my roommate, Mac, and I hurried to grab our respective cameras to attempt to capture the scene. To my utter disappointment I left the memory card and was forced to capture the few remaining patches of Ice in the evening (thus the pictures on this blog).
As Mac laid on the ground, precariously perched under looming stalagmites of Ice taking pictures. Momentarily musing on the scene I was reminded of the last time I had seen Ice.
A portion of Christmas Break for me this year was spent trapped in a snowbound house in the mountains of Colorado. My father and I drove the 24 (app) hour drive straight through to beat the incoming storm. Despite some sliding in Kansas, we made it a good 7 hours ahead of the storm and managed to bunker ourselves in for the predicted heavy snow fall.
Awaking the morning after our arrival I looked out my window to see a good 8 inches of snow, which is a sight, if like me you have never experienced such wonders. Fires stoked and breakfast finished, the snow began to slow down from a white wall to a steady snow shower.
A tradition I have when we go to Colorado is to make the jaunt out to the Rocks about a half mile away. This Rock outcropping clears the trees and gives you a view over the valley and at night the most brilliant stars for casual or professional gazing.
Deciding to continue this habit, I bundled in my ski Jacket and scarf, grabbed gloves and camera, and headed into the white. Reaching the rocks I dug through the snow searching for hand holds on the slick rock, brushing away the snow that was light so that one could almost imagine the same sensations as sweeping away air. I managed to get up the rock face which had turned from jagged outcropping to a deceptive smooth snowy slope, by finding the cracks and wedging my feet to leverage my way to the top, a fifteen square foot cap to the rock.
The silence, if you will excuse the cliche, was loud. I fond myself enveloped in a swirl of wind, white, and snow, the valley turned into a blank canvas of white that upon closer observation reveals itself to be a masterpiece of subtle shades ever shifting under the artist's directions.
Floods, storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, all these natural disasters announce themselves with a terrible tremor or loud thunder. To the end that people move, to shelter, for help, in desperation. But snow is different. Snow is a blanket of white that manages to make everything cease its activity even more effectively then more destructive forces of nature. With a whisper of ice and Snow, everything ceases its tireless activity. Man's achievements are left bound in a material as simple as water and little heavier than the air that it descends through. Cars stop working, everyone hunkers down. Birds, and other animals wisely seek out shelter. When it snows, the world stops.
The majesty of this event is that it happens not in a roar or a rush (though sometimes a whistle) but awed by the power evidenced around me in the silence, I wondered if this wasn't the ultimate act of divine power. That God with a whisper of Ice and snow humbles the world of man. Then with a inaudible rush of warmth allows it to resume.
Finished with his pictures, we left the other photographers and fellow Gawkers. Mac and I headed back to the room. I rushed, my pace quickened by a desire to use the time faster as the day resumed.
new seeds that grow more fruit. If the heart doesn't f all and shatter it remains. If the wind doesn't pluck the heart in a storm of a breeze, if a creature doesn't eye hungrily the ripened sheen, it remains clinging to vine or limb growing old in the heat. Eventually though, no matter how long it clings to the comforts of the branch, it will rot, and wither. It is as a skeleton clinging bitterly and remorsefully to its progenitor who silently watches, wise in its own experience. 
