and birds sit brooding in the snow ~ love's labour's lost

Today is a beautifully picturesque day.
The snow is falling like powdered sugar being sifted; it's as though the heavens are dusting gingerbread houses with sweetened snow.
My hands are freezing and my fingers are skipping quickly across the keyboard, trying to keep warm with the tapping out of new words.
A winter's day.
No sunshine.
No rain.
Just white.
And silence.
(Except for the occasional train, crossing the tracks, announcing its passage with whistles and the crossing bells. And of course, except for the pitter-patter of the keys as I type.)
I watched a squirrel run across the road, leaving behind tiny tracks in the snow. And as he sat, alert and unaware of anything else but the acorn he had stolen away from the tree, I watched as his fluffy tail went from brown to white, as he was decorated with snowy fur.
There are three crows causing a scene across the way. They look out of place in this whitened world. I think they are playing some sort of game. They take turns running across the snow covered streets, and then perch on a nearby branch. Then the other two, fly down as if they are looking at the patterns of the other crow's footprints in the snowfall. I wonder if they're playing a silent pictionary game. Perhaps they're making pictures with their footprints, in the snow, and then taking turns guessing what the other drew.
I should like to play too.
I'll bet I'd win.
Though I think it might be difficult to make interesting pictures with my big feet. It might prove to be quite a clumsy attempt.