I looked up from the computer screen, and the snow was starting to stick to the roof of the neighbor's garage. It was coming down hard, in fluffy clumps of a thousand snowflakes, more like feathers from a burst pillow than snow. I had never seen snowflakes so big. And then I looked up, and the sky was full, just full, of a thousand thousand thousand fluffy clumps of a thousand snowflakes, like bats or insects or birds swarming, but over the whole sky, forever. It was dizzying. And then I realized what the frozen fluff reminded me of: the dried heads of cow parsnip, flat oval galaxies of white flowers that curl up, brown and crisp, into loose fists for the winter. Like all of those ghost flower galaxies were falling from the sky, the infinity of them, summer into fall into winter.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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