Snow Gods

To a flatlander, snowing is a verb. If it is snowing, you are engulfed by flakes, flurries, sharp blizzard flecks, or gobs of wet white if it is warmer. Your vision consists wholly of motion. It can be snowing nowhere except everywhere; you're in the globe, and it's shaking. But this afternoon, from the valley, I saw four great white columns spanning from the clouds down into Mount Jumbo. Translucent but imposing, they slowly turned the slopes white, but they did not move. They were positively Old Testament. And it was positively snowing—for to a mountain-and-valley dweller, snowing is also a noun. A four-dimensional event, and you are omniscient. You see not only here, but there; not only now, but what's to come, or has past. So I suppose that somewhere, an observer with more senses than we, or at least with an even more contrasting landscape, watches six or seven dimensions stretch out on all sides.