Be still. Listen.
The wind blows through the city steadily, whispering from the north, only deterred/rerouted by tall, urban walls. Flakes of snow ride on the wind. They are thin, wispy, hardly of substance, but their persistent falling accumulates flake by flake on the frozen ground.
My boots crunch on thick ice as they sink beneath the freshly powdered surface. Like walking through thick desert sand, snow walking is an endurance sport where each step is just as much an inch backward as it is an inch forward. “Trudge” is the word I think.
This is winter, the way I used to know it.