Snow in the Suburbs
I could take pictures of the houses near where I grew up all day long. I'm fascinated by them and can't really explain why. These are from Christmas Day when everything was silent and the light was amazing.
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
Here's a nice extract from a Hardy poem that shares its name with this post
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
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