Run Off, Where the Drifts Get Deeper
It's snowing in Georgia, something that happens rarely.
Where I grew up, in England and Wisconsin, snow was a common thing. We'd wake up several times a year to a thick and crisp blanket of unmarred white spreading, flowing across the ground like flood in slow motion. Over the following days and weeks it would drift and it would be plowed into mountains and rifts, a unique topography for winter.
In Georgia, though, it only snows with any veracity once every other, maybe every third year. The city is never prepared for it. It locks everything up for a day or two, trapping the inexperienced in their houses, bringing the city to its knees, halting all the world.
But christ it is beautiful.
And then it's gone.