Addendum

The snowfall has turned to rainfall and the ground snow, orange here, in the orange lights, is speckled; pelted into a field of tiny stalagmites.

Great drops plummet from the trees, aiming for my head which contains not much of a brain or I would have worn a hat. My footprints, lingering from the previous lap, have pressed the snow into slush-bottomed pools. Dark ruined leaves fall and further muddy the scene. 

At an early age I believed that the snow fell for some noble purpose; not strictly to provide for Santa’s sled, but to purify; to virginalize, which I perceived vaguely, not knowing such words. I would trudge sparingly at times, re-tracing paths, or sometimes tracking at will, with shameless indulgence, but paying for the privilege: honoring the snow gods with a snow angel.