I woke up before my alarm this morning and lay lazily in bed. Upon hearing the creaks and groans of someone shuffling around upstairs, I began to tune my ears to a different kind of noise. Rain. The splatter of the drops on asphalt, the rustling of tree leaves as the water cascades through their boughs. I listened intently, but the sound I hoped to hear wasn’t there.

Since the downpour earlier this week, when I awoke to those familiar sounds, I’ve been hoping every morning to hear it again. It doesn’t make the most sense; one of the first things I do in the mornings is walk a half-mile to an uncovered bus stop. I’ve got an umbrella, though, and I’ve always quite liked the rain, both being out in it, and staying inside from it.

It struck me, though, as lay listening for something that wasn’t there, that what I really wanted, more than the rain, was to hear silence. That eerie lack of sound that comes along with the blanketing of the world in sheets of white. I want to wake up to snow.

It’s the biggest yearning I’ve felt in a while for life up in the rockies. I think about it routinely; riding multiple busses to school every day reminds me of those days when I’d have to hitchhike to work, and the timing is about equally reliable. Also, I wait for my first bus of the day across from a casual carpool pickup zone, where people practice organized hitchhiking every day.

At least this winter, I’ll be able to head to the mountains routinely, and chase after that winter wonderland of my dreams.