Passing a plow is wrong, even if there is only an inch of snow on the road. With the first snowfall of the year, the road is not frozen and the wet snow gets pressed into a slippery layer of ice. And on Sunday, there had been enough snow to cover the yellow lines. Even though the road was straight, it rolled enough to hide oncoming traffic. I told myself to stay where I was. My patience lasted ten minutes. I turned onto a major side road.

In a squall that dumped centimeters of snow and built drifts, I would not have turned. But where there had been less cars driving, the snow was fresh, less icy. I took it easy, moved over when a car approached, but stayed off the shoulder which would be sodden and soft.

In a low spot, the snow had melted into a slushy puddle that dragged the car to the side. Maybe this had not been such a good choice, I thought. The further I went the more snow had fallen. "It's going to be a long winter. Put up with the plows," I told myself.

Then, near home, I entered a sheltered forest where the narrow road twists. Each branch of every tree held two centimeters of snow. It was a winter cathedral. So quiet. So still. I slowed down to soak in the view.

I had had enough winter driving for one day. I baled on an evening engagement, stayed home curled up with a book while the football games played on television.

The night was quiet, or I slept deeply, missing the wind and the ping on the windows. There must have been both. Morning showed four centimeters of snow clinging to the spruce trees north of the house and a thick layer on the deck, the bird feeders, the ground.

Everything was white. A blanket covered the fields, the garden, the lawn. The texture of the world changed from varied to constant, from rough to smooth.

I knew that the unmarred homogeneity would not last. The ground is not frozen or even cold. As soon as it fell, snow melted from beneath, sinking into the ground. By Monday afternoon, tufts of green showed through. On the pond, snow melted into slush making the surface silver and still, a soft coating of ice.

The lilac still had leaves on it, but they were dead. The afternoon breeze stirred them. They broke free and tumbled to the ground marking the snow with brown-black ovals.

Blue jays and chickadees came to the feeder, scattering sunflower seeds to the ground and making tiny footprints on the snow. Juncos dug for seeds that had fallen, making small tunnels toward the ground.

When I walked out for the mail, I found that a squirrel and a rabbit had crossed the lane. Their feet had pushed the snow aside, but had also melted it so that there were tiny puddles where they had been.

The next night was clear. The stars shone bright as February. But it was not cold. By morning, snow had tumbled from the spruce trees. Water dripped from the roof onto the cold cement step at the door, coating it with ice. Still, each footstep from the day before could still be found.

Spending the day inside at a meeting with few windows, I did not know that rain had come. I did not know how warm it was. I was astonished on the drive home to find the fields had returned to brown and the grey-green of dormant grass.

At home, the surface of the pond remained still and silver, coated with a layer of slushy ice. Those who will winter there have gone to sleep, dug into the mud at the bottom or curled up in a cozy den in the bank.

The pond is at rest, but the squirrels are busy. With the ground clear, my last few prep tasks can be seen. Now that the first fall is gone, I am starting to long for the slower pace that snow will bring, the hibernation that is coming.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.