Faces along the snowy street

An original literary non-fiction-style account of walking along a residential street after neighbours have made snow figures.

The first snowman stood at the corner wearing a hat too small for its head. Its maker had pressed the brim down until the snow bulged around it, giving the face an expression of patient annoyance. A second figure leaned against a low wall, supported by the very thing which made it look casually relaxed.

Along the street, the figures repeated the same basic arrangement without agreeing on anything else. Some had pebble eyes, one wore sunglasses, and a very small one possessed an entire carrot which left it looking more nose than face. Beside each, the snow was marked with paths, scooped hollows and the circular tracks of rolling. The finished figures stood among evidence of how much their makers had moved around.

At one gate, a woman photographed her children beside a snow creature with three arms. She asked them to stand still. One child reached to correct the lowest arm just as she took the picture. The creature’s smile remained fixed, but the photograph would contain at least one face intent on repair.

By mid-afternoon, drops were falling from the corner figure’s hat. A dark line had appeared where one pebble eye had slipped. No one came out to replace it. Further along, the smallest figure had lost its carrot, and the street’s extravagant nose now lay beside a patch of exposed paving.

As the light faded, the curtains began to close behind them. The snow figures remained outside, increasingly uneven, holding poses their makers had chosen hours before. Tomorrow’s rain was mentioned on the radio in a kitchen I passed. At the corner, the undersized hat still sat firmly on a head which had begun to fit it.

How does the writer present the snow figures as personal and temporary additions to the street?