Snow
Unaccompanied Choir (SATB).
This is a winter song, but not the picture-postcard kind.
It’s the kind you feel in your chest when you step outside and the air itself has changed.
It’s written in very short phrases, each one just a single breath long, so it falls slow.
There’s a lot of space built in between the lines on purpose — it’s meant to be sung or spoken the way snow falls: unhurried, quiet, with nothing pushing it.
There are two kinds of winter in it, side by side.
One is soft and almost holy — the stillness that makes a noisy world feel kind again, the light that makes you want to whisper.
The other is the real, street-level winter — biting, grey, tired, beautiful in a much tougher way.
The song doesn’t try to choose between them. It lets them take turns, because that’s what a real winter day does.
One minute you’re lifted by the beauty, the next minute you’re stamping your feet to keep warm. And somehow both feelings are true at once.
At its heart, it’s not about weather at all. It’s about briefness and remaining.
About how something that touches you for only a second and then disappears can still clean the air, hold the street in a hush, and leave you feeling more awake, more tender, and more at peace than before.
Running time - 3 mins. 35 secs
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