"White out."
The limits of language.
DECEMBER 28—Walking home along Ashpohtag Road, I stopped to gaze upon a field of snow. The longer I stood the more I saw as if by slow degrees the land and sky—and my perceiving mind—unveiled. Nowhere, though, and this was odd, in that vast snowy field did I see white. I stood as if bewitched. Light of palest amber, cool shadows cast in blue and violet hues—colors for which, in fact, there are no names. This I saw and more until my heart was full. And all if it—with each breath, with the lowering sun—by the moment changed.