Small flakes of snow blew horizonal all weekend. Eventually, gravity pulled them to the ground, building up a blanket of white. Yellow lines on the road disappeared. Bare ground was covered. Dirty banks of snow became pristine white. New drifts formed beside the house. The spruce trees are weighed down again. Patches of white cling to the grey bark of maple trees that stood in the way of the wind.
Monday morning, the white mound under the bird feeder was unmarked. No paw print from a hunting cat. No graceful marks of a bird's foot. No scattered seeds. Junco and chickadee had stayed hidden in the trees most Sunday, and the night's wind and flurries had covered the marks of any that had ventured to eat.
The yard too was pristine. Footprints, human and rabbit, were filled by new snow. Because so much snow disappeared in early January, the blanket is not thick. Asters have been knocked down by two months of winter weather, but the stakes that mark the lane are easy to find. Many of the cattails are still standing, and they reach above the layer of white.
The stream, flowing so fast through the January thaws, is hidden. Ice covered the water, and snow covered the ice. Memory reminds the unwary where water lurks underneath, so that tractor and skier stay clear.
The way the shape of the world shifts, the view out my window can feel ominous. The drifts move each time the wind shifts. The snow piles beside the deck one day, across the yard the next. No matter which way it blows the path to the barn is filled. There is no indication someone goes to feed the animals regularly. Though I go every morning, I cannot be sure if the snow is packed enough to bear my weight or light enough that I will soon be thigh deep in cold. And even though I thread my way to the truck today, the ground will shift before I head out tomorrow.
On the days there is not wind, like Monday, it can also feel like a peaceful view. A few tiny flakes float in the air. Without the whistle of wind, the trees are still. There are no marks on the land. The creatures shelter in dens and dense cedars. Though the blanket of white is cold, it speaks of sleep.
It is an empty view. No scent reaches the nose. I see no sign of grass, no remnant of last year's wildflowers. Tree branches are bare. The memory of April speaks of bulbs resting, ready to swell, but the evidence is covered.
It is a barren landscape. Spruce are so dark they look black, and they seem tired, weighed down by snow as they are. Maple and poplar are grey. Cattails are bleached to a pale yellow. Cedars are a lifeless brown.
It is a silent world. Now that the wind has diminished, there is not a sound. If I could, I would round up the blue jays and ravens to break the silence. But the birds do not come when I call.
Eventually, rabbit and deer will venture from shelter. Their feet will track across the field. The deer will dig where windfall apples wait. Chickadee voices will skip through the air as they return to the feeder. A new path will be made as we track our way to the barn, to the mail box, to the vehicle. Signs of life will mark the blanket. But winter will see the way we mar the pristine world it creates, and wind will rise again. More snow will cover the marks we make.
Tall stakes mark where I planted garlic. I could dig down and see the plants sheltering under the blanket of snow, waiting for warmth. But I will let them rest for now. April will come.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.
