The snow falls. Soft in its nature and delicately places itself on slate and cobblestone.
It knows not its destiny, nor its present state. The snowflake, simply is…
The flurried, misty made sky weighs heavy like a clouded, muddied snow globe, making sure to ensnare every evergreen and brittle, snow-covered branch
in its hazy, suffocating, mauling grasp.
The bare, Ice hardened branches of the once luscious trees sway in the unforgiving and inscrutable wind, before seeming to also shiver at the behest of such an inendurable force.
The flakes, -now sticking- slowly build. There is no rush on the snowflake, it is not governed by anyone.
It falls at its own steady pace, without obligation.
Its only expectation and necessary requirement is to fall, and eventually meet its doom under either boot, or sun ray.
Peace is a falling snowflake.