Listening To Snowfall

At night you hear the falling, but only after it has settled on some eve or ledge; a parlance between whisper and creak. Beyond the deaf walls, listening to the bushy tails of foragers, the sibilant rustle of padding paws or claws. Ears overhear the pitter-patter of ice crystals talking to a windowpane. Outside in the snow heaps, fur-clad foragers shovel for shelter. From swaddled hollows whiskers sense when you turn in your bed, a body curls ever tighter around its incoherent flesh. Right now – if asked, you’d swear the sky utters as the snowfalls, but it’s just the sound of gravity walking upon snowflakes, only the tumble of silence settling.