Storm warning

It's not frigid yet. That air is to come,
Packed isobars piling down upon us.
Right now it's tolerable, and I can tell
By the way the snow crunches underfoot.
When the arctic air comes, the snow will moan, 
Although my boots will leave the same footprints
As I cross the street.
It's quiet on Hearthstone Drive this late afternoon.
Above me the sky is a placid, even grey
As if reflecting the snow beneath.
The air's dead. Calm. 
Almost like there's no air.
It's so still that my short walk seems an affront
To a midwinter still life.
Like when you take a deep, deep breath
And hold it a moment.
You know your heart is still beating,
Yet there's a pause. And then exhale.