The flakes fly past the car windows like so many shooting stars. We are two hours into our drive, and the snow has been relentless. It melts on the roadway and rises as rooster tails of spray behind the trucks. Squinting in the white glow, their shapes move through the the tunnel of whiteness like the dim outlines of some lumbering beast.
There is only the black streak of road, and the curtain of flakes around us. The landscape lost to the storm leaving behind only the shadow of trees. How many more miles lie between us and our destination? In this blankness we have only our instruments to guide us, and mark the passage of time. Distance is but a theory we measure out in minutes, and hours.
The hours turn to days, the days to weeks, the weeks to years. Until all of time becomes a slow moving glacier whose bulk grinds mountains into piles of sand. Against such forces what difference can we hope to make? Our lives are little more than a pebble to be deposited in a moraine.
The minutes pass, the snow continues, and the hum of tires on wet pavement drowns out all other sounds. Somewhere behind this veil of white, deer stand silent sentinel, watching as we flash past. Eyes straining on the road ahead, sweaty hands gripping the leather steering wheel, our thoughts consumed by this race against geologic time.