There are few things more lovely than to walk out on a brisk winter morning to see the early sunlight glint off the newly fallen, pristine snow. It is a joy to hear the crunch of the ice beneath your boots with each step as you venture out to take in the glory of the nature's miracle.
Any walk is good in those conditions. The clear blue sky almost as white as the snow around you is the perfect backdrop for the sun as it climbs its way through the heavens. Nothing can obscure your view of the sky, except for the occasional dark tree branch.
There's nothing wrong with tree branches, of course. They are part of nature as well. They are attached to the tree trunk that goes back down through the snow. Then also the roots of the tree stick up here and there through the covering of pristine snow.
A shadow is cast as well by the tree, a gray-blue smudge on the pristine snow. That just helps to give the snow some character. It's perfectly natural.
So is the bit of grass that sticks up in occasional spots, cracking through the smooth surface of the pristine snow. Dark little fingers like a dead hand reaching from a frozen grave leaving little gray-blue smudge shadows where they block the sun.
There's a newspaper too, sticking up through the pristine snow. Left behind by some careless jackass so that it can blow around and land in my yard to sabotage the beauty of the new fallen snow. It sticks up to form a tent covered with the news of the evils of the world, a corner flapping in the morning breeze to draw the eye more fully to the gray-blue darkness beneath its peak.
Near the newspaper, the plows have thrown all the debris of the road. Dirt and sand in large icy balls to muddy and dirty a path across the pristine snow. Gravel as well, and old snack packages, beverage containers and used prophylactics, bits of automobiles and rotting run-over squirrels. These are the things that the road plows have scattered across what was my perfect yard.
Even my sidewalk, which I carefully shoveled, left with a light dusting of pristine snow, has been sullied by those who have passed here. As though the boot prints weren't quite enough for it, they've spat what I can only assume to be a big, bloody ball of snot that rolled and gathered a small amount of snow. The impact trail of the phlegm draws the eyes to the final resting-place of the sputum where it steams in the early morning sunlight.
The fury at this affront, as well as the similarity to my recent egg breakfast raises bile up in my throat that leads to the explosion of my repast to be sprayed all across the pristine snow. I gag and I gasp, choking on razor sharp breaths of frigid arctic air. I collapse in a pile to finish my retching, filling my mittens and boots with the snow.
Defeated, at last, totally and with out further will, I push myself up. The call of my warm home and the newspaper and chair remind me that I don't want to be in the cold. Turning to head my self back to my door, I see my neighbor who has stepped out to gaze upon the beauty of the pristine snow.