It was like a half finished painting, left incomplete by a lazy artist. Most of the canvas was blank. White was everywhere, in every direction. Right, left, down, skyward; the earth was white. The snow was an unbroken, ivory blanket, sparking like a powdery jewel. The pale hues of blues under hoary ice contrasted against ashen shadows casted by lofty snow mounds and glaciers; the only colors visibly painted against the grizzly backdrop.
The landscape of ice went on for miles, still and unmoving. It was an ongoing mirror, reflecting frozen crystals and clear diamonds. The gleaming surface slid past the horizon, beautiful and perniciously captivating.
Each flake that fell from the lofty clouds above shimmered in unseen sunlight. They gracefully danced through the air, and gently fell onto the Earth. Tiny gifts sent from God. Small packages drifted from a frosty sky. The Dust settled, glowing against already florescent scenery. Specks conducting magic and fear fell through a misty sky.
The sky was uninterruptedly pure. Then the white was broken; penetrated by the aurora borealis. The painting erupted with color. Greens turned to blues turned to yellows transformed to golds evolved to pinks matured to reds morphed to purples.
Dazzling colors twisted in and around each other, threads woven into an intricate rug. They pulsed as nature’s metronome, with the purpose of a heartbeat. The light darts in the distance like millions of waltzing fairies. They dance away, sunset of the north, and with one last glimpse of a fiery tread, the ripples of light fade posthaste back to white.
The artist picked up his brush to finish what he started.
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