Snow Falls

By Erik Hogan

Snow Falls. Silent, white, inevitable. Words fall, piling into drifts of letters on a page. Snow on the page. Landing so softly on leaves, dead already. Already fallen. Accumulating drafts of white.

The sound of falling. Not silent. Gritty hissing of trees. Snow striking words, settling on thoughts. Piling. Fur by the window watches with teeth birds under drifts of white, dwelling on endings. All silent, save for the falling.

Cold absence weighs down boughs. White. Not absent. Obscuring, growing, reconciled to texture. To the form of course bark and branch. Bearing rising drifts into oblivion. Silence. Words accumulate on the forest floor.

Letters crunch underfoot. Pressed into ideas. Falling into words. Landing in piling drafts of white. Not white. On the page, already compiled unto itself. Wind driven. Final.

Snow falls. A coming together as all falls apart. In silence, not silence, cold settles on the page. A breath grasped warmly by form and texture, by words, builds drifts of silence, hissing grittily over death, subsumed.

Erik Hogan is an Athens police officer whose photography focuses on capturing the beauty of nature.