Wintering Heights

So winter has finally arrived here in the Upper Midwest, at least for the present.  It had been something of the “winter that wasn’t”, two solid months of clouds and mud and bare ground with scarcely a flake of snow and only the morning frost to show the season.  I don’t complain, mind you.  I’m not a tremendous fan of biting cold and weekly snowstorms that bury the roads, but this whitewash of weekend snow is a welcome one.

We live in the countryside, miles from the nearest town, and there is nothing lovelier than a cold fresh blanket of white over the landscape.  It clings to the trees, mounds in the lee of buildings, sculpts itself into gravity-defying curved wing shapes jutting from the eaves. It gives contrast to the variety of trees.  The oaks are dark brown and red, still clinging to hundreds of rustling parchment leaves, while the snow lies like a narrow spine along the thick windward branches.  The hickories are leafless skeletons, splaying drooping phalanges outward and down as though reaching to scoop a palmful of powder.

The pines and spruce are the loveliest.  They capture the cascading flakes in their coat of needles, a frosting layer against the green.  Their limbs hiss in the wind and lean under the weight of their load, not so onerous today since the snow has a fine dry crispness to it rather than an overbearing sticky wetness.  They’ll shake the snow slowly over the next few days, like a dog climbing free of the bath, but for now they’re powdered sugar confections, a Christmas cliché come long past its time.

I stand at the kitchen window, making coffee and watching the snow swirl and drift from the garage roof.  The birds are in a frenzy at the feeders, bright as berries against the white. They come out en force in the snow – the winter-tawny goldfinches vying for a spot at the thistle feeder; the downy woodpeckers with a spot of crimson dark as blood on their heads; the gray and cream juncos crowding and hopping about in the snow, leaving shallow footprints as fine as hairs; the cardinals, electric scarlet and glowing like a Christmas bulb against the absence of color.  Flaring red coals, it seems almost preposterous these last should be able to hop softly about in the cold snow without leaving puddles of meltwater.

My son has been out already, leaving traceries of footprints amongst the drifts. He’s piled a pointed witch’s-hat of snow from the driveway in the front lawn and hollowed out the middle, creating a small triangular igloo, safe shelter from the wind.  I miss the days when the simplicity of such a structure felt sufficient for my own needs.

Tomorrow will be time enough to deal with the petty inconveniences of the snow. There will be time to wrap myself in layers to scrape clean the sidewalk and prep the mower to plow the looooong potholed driveway to the road for myself and the nearest neighbor.  This particular storm had good enough manners to arrive on a Saturday, when I could spend the day reading and bird-watching and soaking in the scenery beneath a warm blanket, mentally preparing myself for a few hours of unhurried snow clearing on a Sunday.

How wonderful when life can be taken at your own unhurried pace!

I just hope the next snow observes such decorum and etiquette.