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.
The birches are outliers. They remain enigmas within nature’s incessant repetition. Colored an eternal winter despite the season or the sun.
I’m wearing a paisley polo, barely peeking out beneath a vintage forest green sweater. Above that is an extended length bomber jacket, to keep me warm until my knees, a plaid scarf I’ve had on repeat since purchasing, skinny cargos (also on repeat), and chocolatey loafers.