I can count the number of times I’ve seen snow on one hand. Yes, I used all 5 fingers, but the number still hasn’t risen to the pinky of my other hand. My East Coast friends tell me that their numbed faces and chapped lips got tired of it within a week, but seeing as I don’t share their experiences, I’m content in my ignorance.
The birch tree is my piece of winter. Its ivory bark peels away to expose a deep umber below, the same way snow melts into the earth. Amongst hills dominated by eternally green redwoods, the few birches that dot my neighborhood provide me solace in their winter white. Whorls of golden leaves hesitantly spiral down from spindly branches; the bark paints itself in monochrome against grey skies.