Countless tires have plowed through the snow on the road. It is a stretch of tan and umber streaks, a muddy, rushing river that curves over the horizon. The road's flowing appearance is in contrast to the undisturbed banks of silvery snow on either side, and the still trees. The evergreens conserve mounds of the white stuff in their flourishing, green boughs, while the tall and spindly hardwoods stand dignified in their naked repose.
The road reminds us of the human presence, and the human struggle to continue with our routine, despite the more harsh, less lovely aspects of winter. By February, those pristine banks of snow seems more frigid than sparkling. We continue to plow through dirty snow, with thoughts of spring and the knowledge that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
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