The clouds are slowly spreading across the night sky, blotting out the stars with white, edges outlined by the rising moon. She hides coyly behind them, teasing us mortals below with glimpses of her beautiful face. I gaze up, watching my breath escape to join its comrades before the moon. They tower up in the heavens, majestic and silent, but growing. The clouds are gathering their strength, pushing against the mountains on either side, unable to cross from their heavy burden.
As the moon retreats behind another bank of storm clouds, the smell of snow comes into the air. Cold, crisp, and undefiled, like summer's rain preserved for winter. The wind sings to the moon, gusting the sound of sea gulls across her face. It dances to its own rhythm, wooing her with its eddies.
As we watch, the clouds begin to sink, bending down to drift between the trees. They float in and out among the pines while the moon watches from above. And then, she sighs contentedly.
One solitary flake drifts down, one piece of the moon's splendor, to touch the face of the earth. It alights, vanishes, only to be replaced by another. Faster and faster they come, the kisses multiplying until the object of their affection is no longer visible. And now there is a storm. The wind snatches at the flakes, jealous of their attention. It whirls them around in a dance, spinning and reeling in the cold January night.
I stand, feeling the kisses of heaven on my face, the jealousy of the wind, and relief of the clouds all on my face. There are no more stars, only snow.