Dirty Snow

Away from the trodden paths, the snow may gleam with whiteness, but the snow on the roads looks like churned maple butter. You'd think I must have been hungry when dirty snow looks like food, but really, I wasn't. I was just looking at things which I normally take for granted. I was stopping and staring at the road, at snow, at telephone poles, and the sky. What would normally have been a five-minute walk took me about twenty, but I was seeing things in a different way.

Normally, sounds do this for me. The distant mournful howl of train whistles made me think of the wolves I heard howling in the mountains, years ago. Traffic running over a loose manhole cover is provocatively percussive, and I've danced to the rhythm of rush hour.

I still haven't been able to do this sort of thing for odours. Smells just seem more concrete than my other senses, and I'm not sure why that is.