The most perfect snowman took shape outside my window.
The landscape was covered in fog, and for maybe 100 yards I could see a few trees.
The snow, the children rolled and packed as if they were the gods of it.
They created, sculpted to their design.
Effortlessly, joyfully, with sloppy hats nearly off their heads, or fallen forward just above the sockets of their eyes.
The nylon snow pants, gloves, coats.
All in colors of ordinary red and blue.
The arms made of branches, as they should be.
Plucked from one of the nearby trees.
Shaped with pride, touched with real coal, charcoal briquettes making the face and buttons. Nothing more than coal and branches.
Completed just as grandpa blew the whistle, the signal for dinner.
Grandpa watched and waited for the completion, peering out the window.
With the morning, the branches dropped downwards from their upright position.
They were firm, packed in with care and advice from one child to the other.
And briquettes lay in the snow, all nine of them, scattered at the base of the snowman.
Soon, the children will return to the snowman and with the same care and joy, fatten the thinned head, remount the fallen branches and briquettes and a freeze will come, and snow will fall holding and dressing the innocence of youth.
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