A thousand soft pellets of snow slam against glass as the wind swirls in chaotic flurries. Hedges are dusted and slowly the translucent white gathers in the nooks and crannys. The swell of noise rises as it turns towards the window, then just as suddenly falls away as the assault veers elsewhere. Water and ice race down the window, shimmering with the wind.
Inside the house the scent of fresh coffee floats through from the kitchen, carrying with it the smell of baking. The cat snores and snuffles, oblivious but content. Warm and safe.
The television shows a grizzled man, thick of beard and accent. He talks of his life, picking a living from the scraps of life. He looks happy and content, he bears no ill will, there is no chip on his shoulder.
After a story or two he picks up his guitar. Dulled red, patched up and broken, he strums three strings and sings a song of a man sleeping between trains, grabbing at what he can.
Outside the wind has died, calmed and sated. Tinges of white are all that remain, the helter skelter down the window pane has ended. A man stands at the window, sipping dark coffee from a place he doesn’t know. He ponders what he has and knows he should be happy.
Daydreaming now, a smile sneaks onto his lips. Colour and light, dazzling and brilliant. Vivid and stark he snapshots the moments in his mind, hoping for once to remember them.
And then the swell of the wind rises once more and washes it all away, erasing to canvas the thoughts. He closes his eyes. The snapshot remains and, once again, he smiles.