Here in the Southeast United States, the coldest temperatures of Winter always seem to arrive later than I expect. I'm not sure why I don't expect it, given that it happens every year come January.
There's never any snow in my area, which is rather aesthetically unfortunate. I've often admired photos of Halloween decorations with a light dusting of snow. As much as I prefer Autumn, Winter presents to me a kind of optical surrealism. Something about wide swaths of white feels otherworldly, silent, and still.
It's probably because I've not grown up or lived in an area with yearly snowfall, so the magic of fresh snow hasn't yet been ruined by an annual ritual of winter tires, soggy socks, ice scraping and snow shoveling. Maybe one day.
Photo by @katiepumpkinhead
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