Bon Hiver
It fell in flitter-fluttering flakes, like a million parachutes.
It fell in a slate-grey, later-day light, the open horizon all hazy (where did it start, and where did it end), and all the naked trees, with their sky-reaching limbs, trying to catch it all. All this stillness. All this forgiveness.
Oh, the snow.
White and widespread, covering the world in a serene monochrome. An opal, off-white glitter, making the worn-down seem newer. Holy, like the light of the Lamb. Falling, falling. Something to wander, to wade through. To leave your prints (repeatedly) in. Something fresh, something to be worn. Something that left you with a throat-tickling shiver, as you saw, perhaps, ever-new signs of purity in each turn of the head.
Field's ears, beneath his 'made-for-mouses' earmuffs (more like ear-mittens, for they covered the entirety of each ear, protecting the delicate, pink flesh of his big, swiveling lobes) became rosy-pink. His ears, even protected, became rosy-pink. From the chill (not embarrassment or shyness, this time).
The chill, indeed.
The nipping chill!
But this wasn't a 'blizzard' snow, or an 'ice-storm' snow.
One could remember, winters ago, all the freezing rain turning to ice, turning to snow, and freezing all the lines on the power lines, weighing them down. And each power line, each telephone poll falling over, toppling to the side. One by one, sparking, shutting off all the electricity for miles. And having to pull the tractor out of the pole barn, having to bring it up to the house, leaving huge, deep tire-treads in the snowy yard, and hooking up the generator. Giving at least a little bit of power. And how there would be 'snow emergencies,' and how schools and businesses shut down.
But, mostly, left in the dark. Cut off.
Shut off from all society. Way out here.
That was a thrilling, eyes-wide kind of isolation. That was frontier-like. That was exhilarating.
However, one wasn't going to wish for such power outages, or such ice storms, or to be stranded on the gravel roads, days from being able to get to town. (For the gravel roads never got plowed; they were always the last roads the county would decide need plowing.)
But, still, the humility at nature's paw. By, extension, God's own paw (for He was in all, and nature was His artwork). At the mercy of natural force and beauty.
Would it be gentle?
Would it turn terrible?
Today, now, certainly, it was the former. This was a gentle snow on a gentle, fading day.
Bon hiver, it whispered, in a quiet, silent, breezy way, where nothing could be heard but your own breathing. Where nothing could be heard but your own heartbeat. This was a wintry 'in a snow-globe' quiet, the kind of quiet in which, if you were even a little bit young and alive, you felt the pin-wheeling urge to go out and play in.
Play, play, play!
In the snow!
For this, for snow, was a lush promise (while it lasted; when it melted, of course, came the dirty, muddy mess, and the sometimes-dangerous flooding; but no one ever remembered the bad side-effects of snow; for snow was diabolical, and it wore a cloak of romance, fooling each and every-fur, and never being scorned for it).
But it was ripe for playing. Like how sand was, or how leaves were. Or how sunny patches of grass could be.
Make 'snow angels,' and insist that they were 'snow angel bats.' Argue about the difference. Don't they look the same, down there, in profile on the snow? How did one tell the difference between a 'snow angel' and a 'snow angel BAT?'
Catch snowflakes on your tongue. On your lips. Insist that December snowflakes are the best. That, honestly, they taste sweeter, and who cares what science says, cause they surely do. They taste sweeter. You've lived in the countryside all your life, and seen lots of snows, and shouldn't you know? And shake your head vehemently at the implication that January flakes are in any way superior.
And build 'snow-mouses' with carrot noses. And with cheese lips.
And swat at him when he takes the cheese lips off the 'snow mouse' and eats them.
And, then, of course, start a snowball fight!
Start one.
... a soft, whiffing.
Whiff!
A whoosh!
A poof!
A snowball bursting apart into crystalline, wet-enough powder. A remnant of its impact left on the backside of the old, white farm-house. And ...
... Field, reacting, went to his belly. Rolled to his right, away from the house. (And away from her aim.)
"You're moving! I can't hit you when you're moving," was the teasing panting. From Adelaide, who was resting on her knees about twenty feet away. Catching her batty breath. Her fangs were (unconsciously or not) showing, glinting. And her exhaling breath filtered around them, disappearing into the air. And her pink-colored fur made her stand out, especially. While his honey-tan lent for an earthier tone, the bat stood out.
Your eyes were simply drawn to her.
You didn't want to look away.
The mouse, getting to all fours, his breath visible, too, as a foggy vapor, smiled. Leaning back, resting on his knees (as she was doing). "Isn't that the objective of a snowball fight? To avoid being hit?"
The flakes, free-wheeling, fell in ginger fashion. Ginger ... 'ginger-furs,' made with cookie cutters. And cinnamon. And drinking hot cocoa. Oh, the foods that snow did accentuate! The memories and the smells. It trapped so many things, did the snow, and when it fell, all was released, and you remembered and yearned all over again.
But, oh, the flakes.
Like everything. Like shards of peppermints and candy canes. That kind of refreshing. Like white cotton candy. It melted when you touched it. Some of the flakes, as they descended, stuck to the mouse's whiskers. And glistened there (for a moment, for sight to see) before melting into a small, small droplet. Before it was instinctively twitched off which a nose-sniff, only to be replaced by another flake, more melting, more sniffs.
Sniff. Twitch. Repeat.
"The objective of any fight," his wife teased, "is to let the femme win." She grinned, spreading her coated, winged arms. "Mm?"
"What? No ... no ... whoever came up with that ... "
"It's chivalry." She lowered her wings.
"Whatever. I beat you in basketball ALL the time," the mouse said. "You're just turning this snowball fight into a ... a feud. Think you can beat up on an effeminate mouse," he said, playfully playing a victim.
A chuckle. "This isn't basketball. It's a snowball fight. You're supposed to let me win," she repeated, enjoying this. She loved teasing him. In this innocent way. The kind of teasing that prompted him to blabber-blab cutely. He couldn't NOT respond to any verbal bait. He always had to take it, and then he got flustered, and then ... he descended into squeaks and flopped over, blinking.
Mousey overload.
Cute!
"No ... "
"Throwing projectiles at an innocent, helpless femme ... "
"Helpless?" The mouse giggle-squeaked. Not a characteristic that befitted the bat. "Whatever. You're not helpless, darling. You're, like, a ... a dynamo or something."
"A dynamo?" A tilt of her head, and eyes sparking.
"Yes. Yes, I ... I tell every-fur that. I say, 'Adelaide, she's a dynamo. To her wing-tips, bless her.' You're like a star."
"Flattery won't win you this match, darling. As much as you ARE making me blush," she said, truthful about the blushing. "You can't sweet-talk your way into surrender. I take no prisoners!" she chittered, raising a paw. As if signaling a war-cry.
A deep breath from him. "You think I'm gonna ... just ... flop over," he panted, breathing in this chill. "I'm smart enough not to let you pummel me. Once your fangs sink into something," he alluded, "you don't let go. You'll snowball me into submission!"
"Not too hard to do," was her remark, showing her fangs, now, more than before. Giving him a 'hungry' look. "Can't you just ... volunteer yourself," she asked sweetly, "into submission? I know you want to. It would be a lot easier, and would take a lot less time, you know," she said, eying him from her position.
The mouse chittered, crawling away. Toward some deeper snow (a few inches deeper, anyway; the snow had been falling since before sunrise). Untouched snow. Good for packing, shaping, turning into a snowy arsenal.
The bat watched him. The mouse all bundled, looking all puffed-up, like a puffer-mouse. What with that winter coat on. And that hat and ear-muffs (mittens), a thick, wooly tail-sock (weighing his tail down, leaving a mark in the snow, when he walked, that made it look like he was dragging a rope behind him). "Come on, Field, just let me get a few good shots."
"You'll have to catch me first!"
"Oh, I don't need to catch you." The bat started packing snow. Pack-pat-pat. And she looked up, grinning. "You gotta get farther away than that, darling."
"You have bad aim." He rolled his eyes in playful resistance. "You missed me just a minute ago. I got more hits on you than you got on me ... "
"I've been giving you WARNING throws," she insisted. "I don't wanna one-up you. Don't wanna damage your sense of 'male strength'."
"Mm-hmm," was his unconvinced reply. But he was smiling to himself. Unable to stop. This might've been a bit 'childish,' but boy, was it fun. You couldn't do stuff like this in the city, could you. He was pretty sure you couldn't. No, country snow was the ONLY snow. And he'd had many winters of it, and he would welcome many more.
Every season with its beauty. Every season with its character.
"I'm tellin' you, Field ... "
"Adelaide ... "
"Field ... "
"Adelaide ... "
"Darling," she cooed sweetly.
The mouse scraped, scraped the snow, piled it, compacted it. Pat-pat. Scrape-pat-pat. Curve it, shape it. Run your gloved paws over it.
"You're not gonna dare throw that at me," the bat said. Her words, themselves, dares. Egging him on.
Field just giggle-squeaked.
Adelaide squirmed a ways off, quickly making more snowballs of her own. And giggle-chittering to herself as she, with her telepathy, tried to snow her husband down. Tried to impede his progress.
"Wh-what?" the mouse went, blinking.
Adelaide looked up, working on her snowballs like they were works of art. Making them perfectly spherical and aesthetic. "Yes, darling?"
"You're ... you're in in my head. You're ... all I hear is this ... 'drop the snow, drop the snow' ... mm ... like this impulse." He wanted to do it, too. The 'flashing' command she was flaring at him was pretty strong. "Mm."
"Drop it, Field. Drop the snowball. You know you want to."
"I don't wanna ... only because you're makin' me THINK I want to." A squeak. "You're cheating!" he accused, starting to laugh. "Adelaide!"
"Never was a rule I ever heard of," the bat said casually, tilting her head (as if getting a 'target-lock'), "that you couldn't make your opponents mind-silly during a snowball fight."
"I'm not dropping it." A pause. And adding, "And I'm not 'mind-silly,' either."
"I think you will," she said, of him dropping the snowball. "And you're as mind silly as I want you to be."
"Mm." The mouse bit his lip. His paw unsure what to do. "Ooh, you're tricky."
Whoosh! She fired!
Poof! The snowball sparking like a winter firework.
The mouse squeaked, the chest of his coat pelted. And he, giggling, used Adelaide's similar fit of amusement (her telepathy un-focusing with her distraction) to snatch some snow, and mold it with mousey quickness (and imprecision), and toss! Whiff! And it smacked the bat's coated side. And burst apart.
A chitter from her! One of excitement and glee, ducking as Field tossed another, and then haphazardly winging one of her own. Happening to catch the mouse's gloved paw. Cancelling out the snowball he was about to toss. Snowball hitting snowball.
All the while, the flakes still, like powdered sugar, like cotton strands, like nature's primer before the painting, fell.
Fell, fell, fell.
Collecting on the black-shingled roof of the house, and on the roof of the car, and on the barn. And on the mailbox. And covering the gravel of the road. And making like a blanket across the fields and pastures.
And the mouse and bat, giggling, chittering, squeaking, panting, crawled closer to each other. Flopping side-by-side into the snow, onto their backs. Staring up and up and into the covered, close-by sky.
Field sighed. Vapor coming from his nose.
Adelaide let off an echo-burst, letting it go up and up ... and letting it never come down. For nothing was up there. And she wondered about, above the cloud layer, how blue it must be. How sunny it must be. How beautiful that must be.
Almost as beautiful as it was down here.
Field, head tilting so that it was touching hers, whispered, "That was fun ... "
"Mm." A breath. A smile from her. "Mm-hmm." She was still catching her breath.
"You're a scrappy snowball fighter," the mouse continued.
"You know it," was her simple nudging response. "And I guess I'll admit that you are, too. We'll call the game even."
A squeak. "Mm. Sounds good to me." A breath. "Mm." And he closed his eyes for a moment. And then opened them. His honey-tan, furry cheeks flushed. His body so much hotter than the air. And his pink, twitching nose all sniffing, all shivering. As cute (and cold) as a button. "My nose is cold."
"It won't fall off ... yet," the bat said.
"Not funny. A mouse without a nose? What would I do?"
"Hmm ... can't imagine. Can't imagine a mouse without the twitches and sniffs. The incessantness." She thought of the feeling, at night, in bed, of his nose in her neck. Having it sniff-twitching gently, silently, all night long. She almost couldn't sleep without that feeling. Without that.
Field flushed, but smiled. "Mm."
The snow fell, fell, fell. And, still, it collected on their whiskers. And, still, it clung to them. And, still, it added to what was already there.
"Mm." Adelaide turned her head a bit. "Those are so cute. Those ear-mittens. And that tail-sock."
"Try wearing them. And then tell me how cute they are," the mouse replied. "You don't have to wear things like that. All you have to wear is gloves and a hat."
"And a coat."
"And a coat," he echoed.
"Well, you're cute when bundled, and you're cuter when bare," was her declaration. "I'm just saying ... "
"Well ... "
The bat let out a breath. Foggy vapor. And she breathed back in, and shivered all over, all through. It wasn't quite cold enough (yet) to make you have to cough when you breathed in. That kind of cold was pungent. Was fierce. This was a better kind of cold. An easier kind of cold. "So beautiful," she whispered, and sighed again. "Mm." She snuggled up next to her husband, in the snow. "Field," she whispered.
"Yeah?" he whispered back, in his airy, wispy way.
"I love you," she mouthed.
A swallow, and a flush. "I love you, too," he responded, his cold nose meeting her chilled, furry cheek. Her pink fur. "You look like ... like all the color in the world. Everything bright and good," he told her, "and gorgeous." She, against the white of the snow, and the grey of the world, being her carnation, rose, and 'cotton candy' pink. She stood out. Almost glowed with that warmth. That pink.
Oh, pink! What a color! What a thing!
Oh, her curves. Her hips, and her wings. And her fangs. And her swept-back ears. And her sparking, deep eyes. And her muzzle. And her breasts (you couldn't forget those; not that he ever would). And every other unseen, sweet, sweet part of her, and her flight-skilled, confident mind. Her drive and her surety of step. How she'd built him up, and how he so relied on her. How she was tender, and ... how he associated all those things with the color pink. He could never get tired of that color, no.
And her pink hues in this blank, natural 'canvas,' it was like a flapping, flaring flame on a candle, lighting the way.
Brightening his day.
And she felt these things in his mind. She felt his thoughts. And flushed (with heat) beneath her attire, and her fur, and let out a deep breath (which floated away). "Darling," she whispered.
"What ... "
"You ... you're sweet," she managed. "You're just ... mm ... " She snuggled into him. Closer. As close as she could get (what with all this stuff on, and what with lying in the snow behind the house and in front of the pasture).
"Well, you're sweeter. You're ... you're like the December snowflakes," he said.
"Am I, now?" A dawning grin.
"Mm-hmm. You're like sugar cookies for Christmas. Like the sweetness you get when you suck on candy canes. You're like ... "
" ... tasty?"
"Tasty," the mouse repeated, nodding. "I think that's ... yeah, that's the word. Tasty. Satisfyingly so."
"Well, I'll take that," she said, her cold lips pressing to his, "as a ... compliment," she breathed, stealing a small, sucking kiss. Which broke with a hot, breathing smack-smack.
A moment of quiet.
Serene silence, with just the noises their bodies made, the inhales, the exhales. The tiny shifts of position (to get more comfortable).
"Adelaide ... "
"Mm?"
"I feel like, even though my nose is cold, and other parts of me are cold, and all that," the mouse rambled, "that my heart is so warm that it's liable to melt all the snow around us."
The bat flushed. Listening to him. Listening to him wax romantic. Listening to his spontaneous, honest poetry.
"And then we'd be soaking wet, and ... and then I don't know what we'd do."
"Go inside and sit in front of the stove, nibbling on each other's bare, furry shoulders. In the glow of the light."
"Sounds nice," the mouse whispered, sighing out. "Oh ... "
"I think it can be arranged," the bat said quietly, "for us to do that." A sharp smile. "Little bit later."
"I could do with a nibble. Or two."
"I get to nibble first," the bat said, with mock-possessiveness. "So, you best watch out."
Field just blushed. Just took a breath. Just sighed.
As they fell back into close, intimate silence. Nature, too, on their level of intimacy, as wrapped around them as it was. Falling on them like it was.
It really was so quiet. The countryside was always quieter than other places, but no more quiet than when it snowed. For, then, it was just complete, utter peacefulness, seemingly. Where did all the birds go? They weren't even about. But with no leaves in the trees, you'd think you'd see them nesting, but ...
... for all the mouse knew, it was just Adelaide and himself, with the baby in the house, and the Lord over all.
Field closed his eyes. Breathing, breathing, and ... blinking. "Mm?" was the mouse-sound he made, turning his head.
"Don't worry," was the soft, soft response. Was Adelaide's whisper. "I'm not gonna take the sock off." She had taken hold of his socked, covered tail, and was, through the fabric, giving gentle tugs and squeezes. Was holding his tail with both her paws.
Field nodded shyly, closing his eyes again.
And she closed hers, too, saying, "I wonder how much we'll get. Snow, I mean. When it'll stop." A pause. "How long it'll stay?" A breath. "I hope we have snow for Christmas. It has to ... there has to be," she whispered, "for Christmas. It's just more proper that way."
"Yeah," Field responded dreamily.
More quiet.
More falling flakes.
More listening to the sounds each other would make. The breaths. The squeaks, the chitters, the throaty noises.
"Hmm," Adelaide eventually sighed, slowly sitting up. And she sighed again. "I think we better go inside," she said.
"How come?" The mouse still on his back.
"My tail's cold," she said, of her shorter, thicker, rudder-like tail (meant for steering in flight, and as a balance). "And my lips, and my nose, and ... and Akira's awake now. She's hungry."
"Oh."
"Yeah ... she's, like, gnawing with her little fangs," Adelaide said, "at my mind. Gnawing with her feelers, I mean."
"I know what you mean ... "
"Little sneak. She's transferring her hunger into my head ... making me hungry, too. Ensuring she gets fed."
"That is sneaky," Field said.
"Mm." Adelaide swallowed. "Well ... we gotta go inside."
"Well, I can make us soup," the mouse said. "Some soup, or something hot. I can make supper," he said helpfully.
A smile. "Okay."
And the mouse sat up, too, and got to his foot-paws. And extended a paw down to the still-sitting bat.
She took it.
And he pulled her up.
And, together, they walked, leaning on each other, through the fresh snow of the yard. Making new prints. Making for the house (and their daughter).
Making to melt.