One foot in front of the other, my hiking boots grip to the snowy street, as I lean slightly back into the hillside, as to not slip, while my jacket collar tugs at my chin, reminding me its flexibility only goes so far. I have this vision of me rolling down the hill, turning into a snowball by time I hit the guard rail at the waters edge, keeping me from dropping into the cold lake. I shake the vision to focus on my steps, while the wind picks up and snowflakes rush by me in a blur, giving me this feeling as though I am the one not moving. I pause for a moment to greet my neighbor and take a photo before tip toeing across the slippery street to cling to the guard rail. I am driven to photograph the waters edge, where snow has gathered and lake ice is forming.
After surveying every angle, I lean into the snow storm face first to get around the frozen rail and squat at its end; with my jeans touching the snow, a chill runs through me. I’m already cold, as the wind has found its way up my pant leg and back of my jacket. After resting for a few seconds, I take off my alpaca mittens and expose my skin to winter’s bite. Through the gusts of snow and out of the grey, I spot a flock of squawking geese headstrong into the snowstorm, their wings too weak to move through the wind. In their maddening escape, they relent, turning back to fly with the blur of white.