real snow

Snow flakes as hard as gravel splatter against my glasses and my breath spills hot back against my face in a white cloud. The wind whips me backwards and I am forced to lean into it, tugging my hood further down around my face so that all I can see is nondescript slush, ice, and the snow smacking the ground… if it ever does. Whirlwinds carry the flakes back up into the air. The snow is now coming at me from below. My chin is poked by a million tiny needles, my mouth open to them. Catching the rising flakes on my tongue like a child I giggle and take my hands out from deep within my coat pockets, watching the whiteness bleed through the cracks of my fingers.