You know how quiet it can get during a snowfall.
Friday afternoon, home from the hardware store, Conan the Barbarian Dog left safely behind, I got out a ladder and set to work hanging wreaths on our windows. Snow was already falling thick and fast. Finished, I stood in the middle of the front yard to admire my handiwork and watch the snow settle in the needles of the wreaths. The neighborhood was nearly silent. Nearly.
Someone was whistling. Loudly but musically. I looked around. No one nearby. I looked up the street. The falling snow blurred what it didn't white out. But I could make out the bright yellow orange school buses waiting in front of the junior high across the way and at the corner the neon yellow green stripes on the crossing guard's hazard vest. The guard whistled away.