That Sort of Day

It was a cold and blustery day, the kind where you stick your head out of your door and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

It was the sort of day that you bundled up with your wool trench coat, hat and scarf.

You walk down your snow dusted steps onto the cold pavement.

You can see your breath form in little puffs of steam that are whisked away by the brisk breeze as quickly as it had appeared.

It was the sort of day that you had to keep moving and singing to yourself to keep warm.

It was the sort of day were you look up into the gray sky, the bare trees look as though
they were painted by a very thin black brush.

It was the sort of day that your boots crunched in the thin snow dusting the sidewalk, and you have to keep blinking to keep the snow out of your eyes.

It was the sort of day that you could stand in the middle of the frosty silent road and dance the Polka because you knew no one was looking.

It was the sort of day that you hear the music of silence. The music of the snow falling to the ground and you find yourself using the cliché ‘winter wonderland.”

It was the sort of day that you could tilt your head back and eat the snowflakes because it only snows this hard once a year.