Claws crunch and sink, leaving trails of strange prints across the
smooth white field. Uncertain terrain makes balancing difficult;
wings, slightly flared, are pelted with tiny specks of cold which
burst against the membranes and fade as the fragile crystals melt.
The world is grey and white and staticky, leaving afterimages of
endless falling specks to linger on in dreams. A casual tail twitch
brings an entire confection of delicately balanced highlights out of a
tree, now left bare brown. In the silence the patter of striking
flakes is the defining sound beyond the crunch, crunch of claws in
snow.
Notes: The result of a challenge to write a scene in - um - 50 words exactly, I think, or maybe 100; I haven't counted recently. I really like snow.