still be discerned under the blanket of snow as the bumps and furrows on the fields were not wholly blanketed. The difference between the trees and the shrubs was quite distinct now in the grey shadow of the winter sun. The V-shaped Maples, the U-shaped Oaks, the crossing branches of the Sumac and Hawthorn soon blended into lines of dark with striations of light between the hedge rows and tree rows lining the highway until the bus rolled past the indolent town of Woodstock. He looked up from the book of short stories as the asphalt ramps and exits appeared more regularly just outside his window. The heaters on the bus continued their useless hum and rhythm and the large green directional signs began to increase along the 401. He would rather be out there. Out in the cool refreshing skin of snow.
She stood on the tiles in the dining room in her pink nightgown and stared out the patio door at the snow. Her apartment was very warm and she liked it that way with a small crack opened at the base of the patio doors. A small cool breeze blew in and swirled around the bottom of her nightgown. Past the tall Pine out her window, past the Russian Olive that borders her neighbours fence, past the snow, she set her gaze on the road that ran between her apartment and the farm land on the other side of the road. Snow and bare branches and fields left fallow with stalks of dead plants. Mostly snow.
Four exits and two S-curves defined Woodstock, well, along the 401 at least. Little population change since he had lived there as a teenager in the 1960s and in the time it took the bus to pass by the city, he would not have had the time to help increase the population of the town. Four exits and two curves and the bus was past the town
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