First Snow, Touching the Window
The moment I looked up from the monitor, people were standing at the window. Backs turned, looking only at the sky without a word, and between them something white drifted down once more. Before I knew it, I'd stood up and taken my place there. The shoulders of the people seeing the first snow today looked a little different than they had until yesterday.
Clear
The first snow gathered on my wrist and vanished, and the next snow gathers in the same spot again. The footprints of people who'd turned from the window remained damp along the hallway.
Following the footprints left in the hallway, I saw the snow carried in on the soles of shoes soon turn to water and dry away without a trace.
On the morning of the first snow, the person next to me on the bus was looking out the window, quietly gazing at the distant mountains.
That person's stilled gaze, watching the snow fall as they looked toward the mountains, must have overlapped with my own faint reflection in the bus window.
On the shoulders of the people looking out the window, a little snow lay still unmelted. While that snow seeped into the warmth of the room, everyone's toes had edged a little closer. The first snow fell so quietly that it never pushed at anyone's back.
I found myself wondering whether the window you were watching was at the same height as the place those people stood. The first snow doesn't fall from above, I've found; at some moment it's already there in the air, and then it appears before us.