New Year's Eve The snow fall had become heavier toward the end of the year. On New Year's Eve, from my balcony on the twelfth floor, I watched white blankets of infinite dimensions being thrown relentlessly and incessantly onto the earth. They buried the huge hospital structure and the helicopter landing platform; they swallowed the Burton Tower on Central Campus, the chimneys from the Power Plant and the holiday lights in the city; they draped the Black Haws, Red Elderberries, Little Leaf Lilacs, Chinese Elms, Persian Ironwoods, Japanese Katsuras, Honey Locusts, Bitter Nuts, Scarlet Oaks, Silver Maples, Yellow Birches, Douglas Firs, Shagbark Hickories and the up hills and down hills in the Arb; they mantled the wide open Michelle Field below; they muffled the singsongs of the river and its body curves. When the hour hand on the clock struck twelve times, I opened my arms to embrace the New Year, and let goose-feather-like snow flakes pile up on my face, melt on my nose. A chill bolted in my blood streams, and my heart thrilled.
	Previous	Next