It snowed that morning, laying a thick heavy blanket on the still-colorful leaves before the sun roused from its slumber. Across the street in Vicar's field, yellowed grasses and wild grains peeked their heads from the layers of flakes to glance at the whitened world around them. The streets were devoid of blemishes, marked only by their outline of sturdy mailboxes and the shiny red flags.

The brush dipped deep in white and smeared across the autumn day, erasing the trees, the leaves, the houses, the fields, and the round face of a little boy pressed against the wide front window. Once again, the canvas was blank. The artist dipped his brush in green.

He is the master of the world confined to the fifteen square foot blank space before him, but even he cannot deny that Spring is coming.