But the city is now obscured, as it often is, by the whitened mass in which it rests – rushing by us at unfathomable speed, crackling like wind in the mist, cold to the touch, glistening and unfolding, tumbling over itself like the steam of an engine or cotton spilling from a bale. Though the blinding white web of ceaseless sounds flows past mercilessly, the curtain is breaking . . . It reveals amid the clouds a lake of air as smooth and clear as a mirror, the deep round eye of a white hurricane.
From “Winter’s Song”, by Mark Helprin:
But the city is now obscured, as it often is, by the whitened mass in which it rests – rushing by us at unfathomable speed, crackling like wind in the mist, cold to the touch, glistening and unfolding, tumbling over itself like the steam of an engine or cotton spilling from a bale. Though the blinding white web of ceaseless sounds flows past mercilessly, the curtain is breaking . . . It reveals amid the clouds a lake of air as smooth and clear as a mirror, the deep round eye of a white hurricane.