A late December Sunday. Fine snow falls thickly and insistently all morning, stops for a few hours, then picks up again in the afternoon.
I am deep in a sewing project and tempted to stay in and finish it, but the falling snow is calling my name. On with the snowpants ... and boots and scarf and hat and coat and gloves. Into the pocket go the turtle and the camera.
The wind is out of the north, driving tiny flakes across the landscape. The trail entrance is deep with virgin snow; only a bunny has gone before me today...
...rather an undecided bunny, it would seem.
Tallulah hollers from my pocket, "Hey don't forget to take some photos of me today!" I oblige her by posing her on a bare twig:
"Do my cheekbones look prominent?" she asks. "I'm sucking in my cheeks."
I haven't the heart to tell her she looks exactly the same as always. (Do turtles even have cheekbones?)
Up the trail to the Favourite Tree, which stands dreaming of longer days to come...
...then left across the field to where the trail splits. Shall I keep going straight, and follow the snowmobile tracks?
Or turn right, and take the road less travelled (which leads past a possible badger sett)?
We choose the road less travelled. (I keep an eye out for animal tracks, but see none.)
What I
do see when I look down are these:
Perfect snowflakes, like tiny six-sided miracles, cling to my scarf. Holding my breath for fear of melting them, I snap a few photos and feel as though someone has handed me the moon.
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| Does this make me an honorary Snowcatcher? :) |
Tallulah sees an inviting hollow stump and perches on the edge to look into the snowy depths:
"How does it look?" I ask.
"Cold and deep," she replies, shivering.
Our trail emerges from the trees, and we stop for a moment to listen. The only sound is the tiny
tkk of snowflakes hitting my coat; all other noises have been swallowed up by the deep pervading silence of falling snow. (Is there anything else in the world that falls so quietly as to hush everything around it?)
The trail curves to the left, passing an empty birdhouse whose occupants have flown to warmer climes:
We cross another field to pick up the snowmobile trail as it curves through the woods:
Branch and tree and ground and sky are full of a soft white glory. Even the prickliest dried blossoms are beautified under hats of snow:
In the third blossom from the bottom hides a tiny, perfect snowflower (which I only noticed during the photo-editing stage):
Out of the woods, past a glorious rank of snow-dusted pines...
...then home under the dimming grey sky, with thoughts of dinner dancing in my head.
A gorgeously snowy walk.
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P.S. (which stands of course for Possum Sighting):
After dinner, Mr. M goes out to the garage and is greatly startled to find this critter. We hope it's not planning to stay, though it seems to like the recycling boxes. I run for my camera, take a quick photo, then we shut the door and leave the possum to it. Wonder if it'll still be there in the morning?
(It wasn't.) :)
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