Snowsong

Today is a very symphonic sort of day.
There have been fast bits with notes going at the speed of light, so quick and nimble that it almost makes you out of breath just listening to it. There have been slow bits with a lilting melody that lull you to a sense of contentment and security. There have been bits that are in between the two, and those, I think, are my favourites.
Outside, snow is falling steadily, as it has all day. That's such a beautiful sight from a window, isn't it? Whirling bits of white. To me it has always looked like they are dancing, and during the long Minnesota winters I always find myself composing music for them to dance to. Would it be a lively gigue, filled with eighth and sixteenth notes jumping up and down the scales? Would it be a leisurely nocturne, with graceful bass and tenor notes dreamily intertwining with the alto and soprano with footsteps light as air?
I'm never sure which one is right. On one hand, you have the frenetic energy that snow always seems to exude. On the other, you have that inescapable sense of contentment and sheer rightness that comes from watching snow fall as you're cozily ensconced inside, preferably with a hot cup of tea.
I suppose the perfect snowsong would be a mix of the two.
But if I try to compose different movements, it would never end. I would want to compose the childlike giddiness of running outside and catching snow on one's tongue. I would want to compose the sharp jagged overwhelmingness of a bitterly cold morning. I would want to compose the slight terror of a blizzard, the giggly unsteadiness of building a snowman with friends that you know is going to fall down the moment you get it to stay up, the breathless ecstasy of a snowball fight.
There's a million moments I'd want to set to music, and it would take my entire life, all my winters, to even begin to do it justice.
And that's only winter. What would I do, if set loose upon the other seasons? How could I compose the first non-forced flowers of spring? What would I do with the prompt of the hot summer sun on a deserted beach? The falling of scarlet and gold flowers like as many precious jewels and metals? The sometimes drowsy, sometimes abrupt flow of seasons?
My mind is dancing with notes right now. There are crescendos here, where gusts a particularly large burst of wind and snow. Decrescendos here, as in the grey light of predawn the last snowflake settles softly. Tempo changes and glissandos and shifting from key to key at the speed of light - or, perhaps, the speed of snow.
That has been my day. A Snowsong, one that wholeheartedly deserves the capitalization. In major and in minor key, and all the better for it. Complex in its simplicity, simple in its complexity, and on the whole mesmerizing.
In short, the best sort of all.