More photos from this walk at The Quiet

Snow is falling at the Grand Canyon right now, and it is—quiet.

A cushioned cloister of snow-soft sounds. A feather-world of silent flakes. A hush, a whisper, a kiss.

And I think, I love snow. I love its padded footsteps, a cat on a carpet. It’s delicate see-saw dance. It’s etch-a-sketch magic. It’s a call to pause, to breath, to step outside and be.

Yesterday evening I was walking along the rim. It had been threatening to snow all day, big bruised clouds riding in and out of the canyon. Then about a mile from my home, I realized I had wandered among a herd of elk. Eight, nine, ten of them so close I could see their whiskers, hear the crunch of sage and juniper against their ivory-colored teeth. And then, just then, it started to snow, and in that cold rush of white, thought flushed from my mind, and I stood stock still for a very long time. 

I needed to memorize that moment. The feeling it brought. The sense of immutable beauty. I was nothing on the edge of something grand. And elks were grazing and the snow was falling, and the world was so very, very sublime.