The snowflakes fall faintly, coming into view only in the glint of porch lights and street lamps, landing almost imperceptibly on window glass in wet sprinkles. The snow sometimes falls here in feet, packing roads and blocking front doors. But this is a flurry of a different sort. If it were a sound, it would be a whisper. If it were a scent, it would be a lily of a late-March field. If it were a song, it would play on the piano keys that fall naturally beneath the musician’s fingertips. If it were a life, it would be yours – “the least of these.” A quick flash in the sunlight as you are rocked down to the ground in the arms of the winter wind, disappearing against an eternity of time.