His hands were tingling and he was sweating under falling snowflakes.

...the endless repetition of an ordinary miracle.

It had started snowing, a thick wet layer of slush that won't stick. There are no cars on the road, nothing but big white flakes falling onto our faces, erasing the buildings around us, and the low swish of our feet on the road as we try to keep our footing, a soft wheeze humming from the bottom of my lungs from too much smoking.
In the middle of Nation Road, Mazzie turns to me without any warning. She grabs my arm and we both fall down, and then we're sitting there in the middle of the bare road, and for a few seconds we just sit there, quite, listening to the eerie silent noise of snow falling against land.
Snow covers Mazzie's eyelashes, making her look like a tiny ice princess– the closest she will ever come to wearing makeup.
"You look pretty," I say.
"Shut up.

The way the snowflakes float like tiny feathers—there’s an elegance to it. I could watch for hours. It’s hypnotic. It reminds me of the feeling I get when I stand on the beach, watching the waves. I’m mesmerized by the power, the vastness, and the mysteries of nature. There’s definitely something holy or divine about it. I wonder if it’s the same feeling people get when they enter a church.

Are ye the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow, For which, through naked trees, the winds A-mourning go?

In the cold, rainy days, they'll hunker down a little more.