Bottles of colour in hand, running down the stairs into the cold, cold snow, white like a clean sheet, a blank slate, a tabula rasa. What will these colours give rise to, give life to?
Confronted with the freshness, momentarilly stunned. Possibilities endless. Total freedom.
The first bottle loses its lid, and with it drops the hesitation…
Colours fly through the air like liquid joy, staining the snow.
Arcs of rainbow inks pattern my world.
Later I watch from the window as snowballers scoop pink snow to throw, balling it up tight and puzzling over the green and blue and orange.
The snow melts slowly, dissolving deeper in the footprints.
As night falls the rain follows and washes my colours away.
And with the dawn a new sheet of snow sleets down to shower with rainbows again.