A blizzard doesn’t march or stomp its feet to announce its invasion, pelt windows with wet bullets, or slap the you with sheets of rain. A blizzard descends like a ninja, silently swooping through the frosty midnight air and stealthily landing on icy toes. It pads across the land, darting rapidly between trees and sneaking onto roofs. Leaving sleeping souls be for hours, until in desolate loneliness, it howls, curling moans through grayed air, burnt at the edges by the soft sienna glow of streetlights posted like apathetic sentinels along the road now flooded by rolling mounds of snow. Tucked against parked cars like insulation packed into eaves. From the blacked out heavens, Old Man Winter shakes his quilted map of attack, and a million more frozen flakes come cascading down, whirling around the covert ninja leaping and dancing over barren lawns, perching on window sills, and coating steps with invisible ice. Tomorrow someone will fall prey to the blizzard’s careful traps, slip and fly backwards, and land with a heavy thud on his back. While children toy with a scheme to skate across a hardened pond as their fathers grunt in the arduous labor of plowing blankets of snow from suburban driveways.
The ninja will be gone, his mission complete, the white damage done. In Old Man Winter’s cabin, he’ll be resting, building his strength for the next winter storm.