The snowballs flutter above the piles on the ground.
To a casual onlooker, it would appear as if they were rising from the ground, defying gravity, flying towards the skies.
Another would think the snowballs were falling gently, returning home, coming to rest on the piles below.
The little boy says the snowballs arch into a portal to another land.
His sister, the younger one, says she has seen fairies living inside the snowballs.
The elder sister says it is something like a mistletoe. You have to kiss your partner when you walk underneath the white archway, so you better be careful whom you choose to accompany you on a beautiful night.
Their mother says all her children are blessed with very active imaginations. Truth be told, she says, it is simply a creative's imagination, an artist's creation. If you look closely enough you can see the blue-black threads of steel on which the snowballs are suspended. (But of course I won't go looking for them threads. You knew that, didn't you?)
The wise man asked me what I made of it all. To me, I said, it appears like a moment frozen in time, caught between breaths, the snapshot of a dancer in motion. Difficult to say whether they are still or in motion. If in motion, whether they are rising or falling. Perhaps if we watched long enough, I imagine we would see the little globes of white floating up and down in little, gentle motions like the rise and fall of breath under the skin of our chests.
The wise man cackled with laughter and said that the snowballs kept up their whimsical dance to keep us trapped in our imaginary illusions, so we remain sufficiently distracted from the mischief that goes on beneath the harmless looking piles of snow, right under our noses.