Fragments From Floyd

The woods are dark and snow appears illumined as it falls, following the verticals of bare poplars on the hillside, flakes falling in perfect perpendicular to the flattened grasses of the pasture, each flake or cluster of quills along its own path and not another as if lowered down, down one by one on invisible threads. Most distant feathers float suspended and, picking out a single one to follow with the eye, it will take an eternity to sizzle to the ground on its immense journey. One from half the distance falls twice as fast, and tufts of flakes just in front of my face zip past in a terrible hurry.