Two Kinds of Snow

Phillip Sterling

“The two kinds of snow best for lovemaking,”
she said, nodding toward the window, "—one is
this kind, November snow, large wisps in drifts
so soft we’d sink out of sight, like making
angels. Even your bare skin would barely
feel snow so light and tingly and teasing. . . .
—Not that we’d really be aware, fucking
and all. . . .” She paused. “The other is nearly
opposite. Say we’re on the north slope of
an ice-locked beaver pond in the woods where
we’d skied all season. It’s March now, and there
is sun warming thaw-pack and no one, Love,
within eleven miles.” She smiled. “You know?
Everything in-between is just more snow.”