Whirling dervishes

As I stood outside smoking the wilting remnant of a humidity-drenched Camel nonfilter, watching dust devils dance about the steaming asphalt of Route 81, suddenly a monstrous whirlwind of tiny white blossoms descended upon me like something out of a Miyazaki film. It was biblical, almost, the whipping tender caresses of snowflake flora finally settling in a nautilus spiral at my feet, reaching out in thirty-foot tendrils towards a highway, a docking bay, my still smoldering cigarette stub.
I stretched out my arms and looked silly for a time, relishing the fact that I have skin and that the wind still carries things.