It arrived with slight fanfare and the usual winter storm warnings. A predicted eight to fourteen inches, granting us something in-between, meeting expectations, and wreaking only slight havoc with the Friday night traffic.
It was light, fluffy stuff, and without any wind it fell softly and quietly – the kind of snowfall that gives snow a good name. Like clumps of cotton, it clung to the trees and plied itself upon every surface. Above, it nestles in the crooks of a dogwood tree, a blank white canvass against which next Spring’s buds offer a stark contrast of tightly coiled black arrows pointing upward.
A patch of pesky weeds dangles white powder puffs before a weathered wooden fence. This is the magic of snow, the enchantment of winter, and it exerts a subtle, solemn solace.
The windless day left the snow suspended on branches and power lines and fences – the bleak gray and brown landscape of January suddenly and instantly transformed overnight. A blanket is a most apt term, wrapping the world as it does in a gauzy cocoon.
Back to Blog
