There is a certain aura that descends deliciously on you when you awake to the land covered in whiteness. It came this morning for the first time this season. Snow.
The valley below is spread with snow, the darker river snaking a course through the land with the white skeletons of the sycamore trees lining the edges where snow meets water. It is a treat. So we move more wood into the stove and feel especially comforted this morning as the flame spreads heat into our bluffhouse home.
We have no guests today. Were there a way to predict the date of snowfall, I am certain we would be besieged with requests for our cabins. But, not so, those folks are busying themselves in offices, cubicles, store counters and other employments. I truly wish they were able to participate in this luxury. I'll admit to my own gratitude for this.
Here is a snatch of poetry that my mother -- long gone -- would quote on mornings suchs at this.
"The snow began in the gloaming,
And busily through the night,
Heaping field and highway
With silence deep and white."
The wind swirls fluffiness around the corners of the house. The birds attack the feast we have prepared for them: Suet, niger seed, sunflower seeds (oh, and we must'nt forget water). We've even laid out some ear corn in hopes the squirrels will stay clear the the feathered creatures flitting about.
I am certain that Aunt Phoebe is enjoying the snowfall at her cabin overlooking the valley. And at spare Line Camp Cabin buried in the trees, remnants of past occupants who have loved this place are murmuring contentment.
We will hope for more such snows this winter. But, until then, this one will satisfy for a time.
Westward, across the valley we can see another snow shower rolling toward us. We will let this one pass, then be off to track the critters in the snow on a brief foray into the woods. We'll collect an armful of wood from the pile on our return.