A field and a beach

I will miss the field of unadulterated snow, not yet pierced by size 7 1/2 compressions. Three days from now, as if the first compressions were detectable landmines to be avoided, compressions will freckle the now perfect slope. People are like me- they want to feel the snow crunch beneath their boots. I just want to be the first one to do it. I take one more savoring stare at it then sense a pedestrian behind me. I have to be first. Here I go. Crunch crunch. In some places the snow is deeper than my boots are tall. I feel a little childish for smiling like this.
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All around me sound is muffled. I lift an ear flap to see if the silence is just in my hat, but it isn't. Across the sea, the Brooklyn shore looks like it has been wiped with gray water color paint- my vision too is muffled by the swirling snow. Crystals hit the water near my boots and float for a moment before they become water too. The waves have stolen much of the white from the beach, but between here and the boardwalk, only a trail of size 7 1/2 holes uncover the sand.