There is something incredibly majestic about snow. And at the same time... something about it that is humble and scorned. The first snow of the winter is rarely a raging storm... more often it takes the form of a flurry or little puff of the winter that is to come. It is scorned... melts quickly and is soon purposefully forgotten by us human-folk. Weeks go by and most every falls into that position were they believe the snow never happened... it was all just a figment of our collective imagination.
Then Thanksgiving approaches, the snow readies its horses and chariot and rides as it has not ridden before. Suddenly the world is silent; it can say nothing in the face of such honor and splendor. Of course there are some desenters, but they are soon shushed by the onlooking crowd.
'Hush...' they seemm to say, 'the king cometh...'
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