By Cathy Hird
A raven calls. Another answers quick as an echo. The only other sound is the ping of snowflakes on my coat. The storm has just ended. The wind, wild and swirling hours ago has eased back to the slightest brush of cold air on my cheeks.

No other creature has ventured out. The thick blanket of snow in front of me is unbroken by print of bird or deer. No coyote or rabbit has stepped from the shelter where they rested during this heavy fall of snow. My ski tracks are the only marks on the field.

In the hay field I just left, a few tall grass stalks reached up making long shadows on the snow. In the lane, the trees laid down soft grey shadows, stretched long and thin. The sun, when it peaks through the clouds is low in the southwest making it hard to tell what time it is on this short afternoon.

Did it really rain yesterday? Was it less than 24 hours ago that driving rain turned to snow? I had hurried home ahead of the predicted flash freeze and squalls. From the warmth of home, I then watched softly falling snow wondering how much we would get.

Around midnight, I looked out at a swirl of white. At 5am, I saw a few hazy stars. It was hard to know how much of the squalls had reached our corner of the county. In the morning, I had to push back a drift to open the door and plodded through another to get to the tractor to clean the lane for the day's activities. We had been dumped on.

It took an hour to clean the lane well enough to get the oil truck in. We had planned to go downhill skiing, but that plan was discarded. The roads we would take were all open, but we'd cross two that were closed, and the radar showed that a heavy blue squall had Collingwood in its sights like an archer aiming at a target. It seemed prudent to stay home.

But the blanket of white called me. I shifted to cross country boots, and headed out. I was tempted to go down along the swamp where shrubs and cattails catch deep drifts. But it did rain yesterday. And the stream under our lane still flowed fast, carrying away the rain and snow melt of the day before. The snow would have insulated the ground too, so I suspected it would be wet if I ventured into the lowlands.

Now, alone in the empty field, I stay near the fence rows, another place where drifts build, but it is hardly necessary. Beans were harvested in this field I cross now, so not a blade of grass or aster spikes breaks the pure white blanket. In the lee of the hill, the snow is deep, but even on the windward side, a place sometimes scoured to the ground, my skies flow forward with ease. When the sun peaks through, crystals of snow sparkled in the soft light.

The world is grey and white. Trees are an empty brown-grey with snow coating their bark on one side. In the distance, a few willows stand with a halo of rusty orange branches, the only colour in this wintry world. Until, one patch of blue appears near the pale white sun. Another drift of flakes and the sky is solid grey again. The clouds to the west are darker, but not the deep blue-black of a squall. This is just a light dusting to keep the ground pristine.

I will take the same tracks back to the house. I do not want to leave any more marks than necessary. And breaking trail is hard work even if the snow is light. It will be a speedier trip back to the warmth of the house and the work that awaits there. As I slide down a hill, the second of the ravens calls again and this time it rises from the empty branches in front of me. With solid black wings, it soars past me toward the place where the other raven calls, beckoning.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister and writer living near Walters Falls.