Snow came yesterday, a cleansing blanket, smoothing the ragged lines of the bared ground. The boughs of the conifers hang heavy, and I wonder if the trees hold awareness of this strange new weight, and how it must feel to be so laden, with no means for shaking off the load. How strange to foist my human narrative on the spruce and fir. Perhaps to them, the burden of snow is merely something to be borne. It time it will pass, as most things do.
This morning I walked for a while with my younger son through the snow-hushed trees; when we returned home, I pulled our skis from their summer resting spot under the tin of the cow’s run-in shed. It’s time.