Winter Park, Colorado
In the dream there is snow that will not stop falling. It is a gentle white, with large delicate flakes that float like misplaced feathers toward the ground. The air is not terribly cold, and most of the time the sun is shining -- still, the snow continues day after day until everyone feels like they are living inside of a snow globe that’s been shaken too hard. At first people complain; scientists lock themselves away to study the phenomenon of globalsnowing; politicians get dizzy with no words to explain, finally just waving their mittens at constituents. But as the snowbase grows -- 3 feet, 6 feet, 9 feet, 12 -- people begins to adapt, and tunnels begin to appear. Snowhomes, snowballs, sledding, skis replace shoes. There is genuine laughter as the wagers and guessing games on when the snow will stop begin to replace outdated pastimes like staring at violent sports on Sunday afternoons. The stars shine brightly through the snowflakes at night. Streets are renamed like ski runs, with the signs posted higher and higher every day. Children climb up snow stairways to play outdoors each morning, in wonder. Snowtowers, snowcars, ski jumps on every corner, the end of the world by snow, or a beginning?