by Jane St. Clair

It snowed this day, and Arizona desert snow is rare.

I have forgotten the sound of snow because even rain is rare in the desert. I remember that rain makes little plip plop sounds like the trotting of little fairy horses. But snow is rarer than rain

and I have forgotten how quiet it sounds when it falls. I have forgotten how snowflakes fall in white ballerina dresses, small dancers alighting on the spines of cactus, and twirling with blades of grass as their partners.

I have forgotten how snow makes outlines, the way children outline the edges of their drawings, and how snow makes outlines so that everything stands out in a black/white panorama.

I forgot how snow makes trees as proud as if they were wearing their fall splendors,

and I forgot how snow settles into spaces I ordinarily overlook,

and I have forgotten how snow transforms the mountains into some icy moonscape that belongs in a galaxy far, far away.

But just as quickly as it falls,

Arizona desert snow melts away.

It is a rare desert moment that faded too fast.

I remember snow.