Not The False Starts, Not The Stalling

I picture more of a late fall in this poem. The sky is very grey, the time is probably around 4pm. The sun is nowhere to be found. There are a few leaves scurrying about that have escaped bring racked up. You can tell that the snow will be here soon. Then it beings. Just a couple flakes here and there. The snow is very suddle and doesnt change time at all. Then when the snow does pick up, all becomes still. There is no noise, just Falling. The falling makes everything calm. Almost like a blanket of peace is tossed on the town. The sky then becomes dark.