It's snowing. The big, soft, silent kind of snow. I am walking home from the grocery store with a few minor things for pumpkin pie. I have my long, downy winter coat on, zipped and buttoned up nice and close around my neck. I have my brown berber hat and scarf on, along with my brown leather gloves; and I'm walking.
It wasn't snowing when I entered the only grocery-store in town, but rather it was growing rapidly dark. And then, when I walked out, I looked up to the lamps lighting the streets and saw it coming. The glistening white, shining in the soft orange glow of the street lamps, coming down out of the veil of darkness above. First they aren't there, and then they gradually appear out of the abyss and land, fairy-like, on the ground. They powder the hair of everyone around, including the part of mine that falls on my shoulders.
I set out at a brisk pace across the parking lot and start to make my way down Cottage Street. I greet everyone I pass. Instead of taking the regular shortcut home, I walked a little bit longer until I reached the public parking lot. I walked up there and into the Village Green. The snow sticks better here, on the cobblestones. The asphalt is a little warmer, so part of the snow melts directly. I walk through the softly lit park, and cross Mt. Desert Street and walk along Main. I turn onto Newton Way and then onto Des Isle Avenue. An unknown neighbor, just coming home, turns on his porch steps to bid me good evening. I return the favor. I make the last few yards to my house, unlock the door, and enter my warm abode, with no one to greet me but the two cats and a small dog. I welcome the silence.
There's not much to compare to taking the long way home.