So with katana in hand I went outside, calming my mentals and pacing the fall of the snow. I raised my blade, silver against a grey sky its edge as cold as winter and moonlight and with my eyes locked on my target flake I drew breath, letting it out slowly, slowly, mist curling and snagging in my grizzled beard, fingers flexing on my shark skinned grip, and struck. Sniker-snack! A keen blow! Faster than thought, than sight, perfect body arch and flow, text book stance and posture, a work of art.
I totally missed.
I then decided that it was a stupid idea and went back inside before I froze to death.