It was strangely quiet outside as the tired inhabitants of the village settled down to sleep in their comfortable homes insulating them from the frigid air outside. Warmly tucked up in their cosy beds blissfully unaware of snowy petals gently floating down past their frosted windows. Their descent so silent as to form a thin covering of white powder over all of man and natures creations exposed to that night sky.
No sound is heard as snowflakes, floating like feathers slowly alter the nocturnal landscape. On this a darkened night, many features normally hidden in the lesser lunar light now become openly available to any accommodating eyes. The village in this crisp and serene surroundings appears to be at peace with itself. Branches of the deciduous trees now wear an overcoat of white, like fresh spring blossom covering the limbs in a wintry bloom.
Undisturbed through the night's chilled air allows for an ever increasing cascade of snowflakes to encase the village in a blanket of white like a Christmas greetings card. As darkness continues into the morning some footprints will be left in the virgin snow. The milkman's winter boots leaving a distinctive trail along a now hidden pathway to your door, while the milk begins to slowly freeze in anticipation of your early collection. Another tiny set of footprints vaguely identifiable to eyes not fully separated from its land of dreams. They make their own way along the path to the house. On tin-foils milk tops a thin film of snow reveals the minute footprints of the blue tit, a small pierced opening to the milk below revealing its purpose. The sound of children's excited screams as they survey the new horizon from their bedroom windows. A new mystical world awaits them with new ventures in a medium so temporary they will not want to waste a minute of these winter shortened days.
Its beauty only tempered by Dad's grumble about troublesome transportation for this is still another working day