I notice it only a few moments after it starts.  As the white specks of frozen water flutter down from the sky, I know that the storm is coming, and my house will be surrounded and covered in it. Maybe we won’t have school tomorrow, I think at first.
I don’t want to shovel today, I think next, with a large sigh of laziness.
       Instead, my mind wanders, picturing how it would be to sit in the forest with snowflakes drifting from the sky. The cold bites my palms and face. I must have been too stupid to bring gloves and a scarf, or maybe I am just being rebellious against my mother.
Breathing in deeply, the aroma of pine and frost fill my lungs, the icy nip of the brisk air tickling my nose. Crystals of snow dance down from the tree branches, swirling and fluttering around until landing gracefully on the ground, the trees, the rocks, my face.
       Despite being such a beauteous occasion, there is not a sound, no music or noise, in this labyrinth of trees and glaring white snow. There is no crescendo, no slow calming melodies. The silence is the music of this exquisite moment, I realize. I cannot think of anything more beautiful.
       But then a flash of color flickers among the sea of ivory, and I change my mind. The color of a freshly-picked rose, the color of the crisp apples we picked in the fall, a small cardinal flies to a drooping branch, resting its tired wings after a long flight back home. And just like that, the silent music changes into something different altogether. It turns alive, that song. It turns into a harmony of life and survival. It transforms into the anthem of all living things, instead of the delicate lullaby of the silent snow. The trees seem to be leaning in toward the bird, waiting just as I am to see what it will do.
       Quickly as it has come, the cardinal pushes off the branch, avalanching snow, and shoots off into the maze of the forest. Thus, the song of life recedes, and the song of silence begins again.
       I still have to shovel the next morning.