The dead leaves on the dirty ground / Fran Klingerhaul

From the looks of it no one else had been there since the previous night's snow fall. In front of him laid a wide expanse of rolling hills and tree-lined paths, all covered with a blanket of undisturbed snow. The site of his breath made him realize that he hadn't exhaled since he'd halted at the park's entrance, as if the air he held in his lungs might somehow contaminate the pristine landscape before him. He puffed out a few more big breaths and watched them disappear into the cold air as he entered the park with the crunch of his right foot.

Each tree, limb, and small branch carefully balanced a full inch of snow. It was as if they were hiding from the sky beneath the white powder, being careful not to drop a single flake lest they be spotted from above. He couldn't help but notice that the park had never looked so open, so simple, so clean and inviting. His steps turned into long strides and his strides turned into a light jog and his light jog then turned into a full out sprint as he soared across the vast expanse of uniformity that the snow provided. He pondered his worries no more and happiness filled his heart. Once exhausted he stopped and crouched down to catch his breath, his eyes still squinting from the brilliance of the snow and his cheeks aching from his grin that spread from ear to ear. Then he saw it.

It was a piece of dog shit.

There was no telling where it had come from. There were no tracks leading to or from. Yet it sat there demanding to be considered. He scooped a handful of snow over it in an attempt to rid it of site and mind but the act itself exposed a small piece and black and barren earth below. Then it all started to unravel.

The site of the filthy ground made him realize how fragile and temporary the snow cover was, that a mere five degree rise in temperature would not only obliterate the beautiful blanket, it would also transform everything beneath it into a damp and dirty clusterfuck, a cold mess of dead leaves and decaying branches and bitter ground that was not so unlike his cold mess of a life so he picked up the dogshit with his bare hands and mashed it in his fists so it oozed between his fingers and he wondered now why he didn't realize before now how bitterly cold it was outside and and how he'd never amount to anything in this realm and how snow is a sham because it only falls when the world is shivering and depressed and alone so it's no wonder people hold it in such high regard because their moral is low and they are so easily entranced by this fickle savior from above which in reality is a charade of white hope that creates misery underneath it's glorious coat before leaving us in May with a pile of muddy muck and unpaid phone bills and rotting animals and unreturned phone calls. . .

Passersby came upon him several hours later, huddled on the ground underneath a tree, gently kicking its stump, partially covered in snow from the branches above.

"It's all dog shit" he was muttering to himself, over and over again.

zeroth life lesson: anything that melts when you touch it should be considered with care before loving.