Outside, white. Large flakes rush down from somewhere, softly but with a purpose. The snow is sinister today, no purity or innocence to speak of. The air cold, especially so with the biting gusts that find the small opening at the neck of the coat, burying themselves inside like so many icicles. This blanket is not cashmere, but a harsher wool, itching and working its way under the skin.
Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are useless against the damp, soaked through and frozen into withered talons. His hands are red and raw from his wasted efforts with the shovel, better left for morning. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. He did not expect the storm. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining its plea in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene; both take on new meaning. The whistle is the terror and the push, the singer and the song, futility. The white is nothing and nothing again. The white is all.
Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata to inform her of what she already knows. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles at her relative good fortune, and sets about making another pot of coffee.
(Adopt a roving point of view, like the one Dickens creates with his fog, and make a moving pictue. You will need to decide how to establish the point of view. What does moving allow you to see that standing still doesn't? What does it keep you from seeing?)
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