a bough of dark green stood alone against a sheet of white, shining  by day. That night, unseen, the blanket spread. It had 2 inches of snow heavy laden on it's back. Each snowflake had a story, once. But no more, the weight crushed them into one, their story a blend, the ones story of how the individuals fell, softly, seemingly independent. Of how each snowflake found dropped upon it another light snowflake, adding up light load after small burden to crush the whole thing into one, absorbing every snowflake after it fell. It's story was of patience, a waiting game ending in solidity, only to get to heavy and slide off, than the green canvas would again be painted a heavy white, until spring when they would become one water to drip down like rain, pitter-patter on the mud, the mud that absorbed them like that block of snow, eventually to separate once more. Someday, probably, they would be united in the ocean. Meanwhile the eternally young pine bough hung forever suspended in its loneliness.