Landscape Domination

Snow has fallen all of the present day and the day before, and he can’t help but feel like a failure.

The children are home from where ever it is they go when Snow isn’t there. Snow doesn’t know how to feel about them. They impede his progress, with their snowmen and sledding cutting swaths away from the blanket he continuously tries to lay over the ground, but he also takes delight in the fact that they take delight in him.

Snow tries to do as much as possible – it is normally not cold enough for him to visit this area. He hasn’t been this far south in months. In his mind, it is imperative that everything within birds-eye view is covered.

Unfortunately, he and this area have no chemistry. He can still see the greens, browns and grays of the ground, and he doesn’t want to see them. Snow sees enough of the earth and the pavement every day from his perch in the sky. He doesn't mind the landscape, but right now, he has a project to complete. The little town has had its time, as it will again once he is finished. He just wants to borrow it for now.

Snow doesn’t like taking action half-heartedly, so he tears off pieces of himself and lets them fall. At first, he is tentative, for this action is painful to him. Snow consoles himself with the knowledge of his imminent regeneration, but he never likes to waste his resources.

Rain helps him, or perhaps she doesn’t. She had been useful to him as they are laying a durable foundation of hail for Snow to stick himself to later, but after a while, she starts to be a hindrance. How is Snow supposed to stick to anything when Rain keeps using her warmth to wash his work away?

He tells Rain to leave him. He would get the job done himself. Rain understands his frustration, and leaves, albeit temporarily.

Looking at his fruitless attempts at landscape domination, Snow concludes that he must double his efforts. He is angry at himself, for Snow is a perfectionist. A layer of snow on the ground that can be undone by a gust of wind or the light steps of a squirrel is not perfection.

Rain comes back, acknowledging Snow apologetically before making her way over the earth. He melts.

He tries again later. It is darker now, and colder. He has more of a chance.

This time, he doesn’t hold back. He lets himself fall. There is now less of him in the sky than there is falling out of the sky.

At first he is unsuccessful. His flakes fall to the ground and melt instantly. He sees the drab, cool, colors where he doesn’t want them to be. Becoming more panicked, he severs more and more of himself and lets it go.

Flakes fall from the sky, some taking a fast, diagonal track down to the earth, others dancing, whirling and swarming like gnats around each other. No matter what their mannerism, they all seem to fit together.

Finally, he starts to stick. At first, the flakes are just tiny dots on the pavement and foliage. The pavement is gray. The snow is white. More flakes fall, fitting into the blanket like puzzle pieces. Snow sees that he has succeeded and breaths a sigh of relief, blowing his flakes every which way.

The children are playing. Snow ignores them. The animals are hiding in their respective shelters. Snow knows that they can take care of themselves. Adult humans are slamming on their breaks and skidding every which way on the roadway. Snow doesn’t really notice them. Plants freeze under his blanket. Snow has faith in their resilience. Snow doesn’t care about the living. This is his moment. Those on the Earth will have to contend with him, at least for a few more days.

He looks across the landscape; his landscape, at the moment, and smiles.