After the most recent snowstorm, everything seemed to slow down. 

Snow covered the ground in thick, uneven layers, dulling the landscape until it seemed quieter than usual. The fence in my backyard still stands, but it no longer looks as firm or defined. Snow presses against it from both sides, softening the line it’s meant to draw. The frigid air has settled in permanently, making every movement feel deliberate. 

The field looks paused. No more animal tracks crisscross it and the snow has smoothed everything into a blank surface that feels untouched. It’s easy to assume nothing is happening here. But the longer I stand still, the more I realize how much remains. 

The trees at the edge of the field remain bare, their branches bent and traced with snow. Some sag under the weight, while others reach upward, thin and dark against the pale sky. They look steady, even restrained, as if winter has asked them to hold onto only that which matters. There is something quiet and reserved about them. They don’t draw attention to themselves. They don’t try to appear alive in the way that we usually expect life to look. 

Without movement or sound, small details begin to matter more, such as the subtle dips in the snowdrifts shaped by wind, the stiffness of my hands from the cold, and the rhythm of my breathing in the still air. With so little competing for attention, there is finally space to observe without rushing to interpret.

Gallery • 2 Photos

Nathan Frohlich '27

The recent storm left a coating of snow on an empty birdhouse.

The cold strips away both comfort and distraction. There is no warmth to linger in, no reason to stay longer than necessary, and the landscape simply exists under the conditions it’s been given. I think about how often we try to move past movements like this – quiet, uncomfortable – and we’re used to looking for something that stands out, something worth reacting to.

But the winter is plain; it doesn’t try to impress. It settles in. 

When I eventually start to head back inside, my surroundings remain unchanged. The snow retains no sign of my brief presence. Some moments aren’t meant to be recorded. They matter because they ask us to slow down, to notice what we usually overlook. 

The winter season doesn’t rush, it doesn’t explain itself. It simply stays, reminding us that there is meaning in what endures quietly.

Sometimes noticing is enough.

__________

A Note on Student Features: Elsa is a junior at BHS; her essay is an original work of thoughtful, first-person commentary from a member of our student body. We regularly publish such features as a part of our news coverage, ensuring The Buzz remains a platform for the unique and varied voices across the BHS community. We encourage all students to continue sharing their voices with us.