The first snowfall of the year begins in the dark hours of a Saturday morning. It ends as large clusters of snowflakes, each the size of a cornflake, drift down while we warm ourselves with crisp grilled cheese and steaming bowls of tomato soup.
Before we venture out to mark the unblemished white canvas, my son and I pause at the threshold, marveling at a world made new overnight. His eager footprints and the tracks of my specialized four-wheel drive wheelchair – my companion for forest trails and slippery roads – wait to write our story across the snow.
The snow fell with barely a whisper of wind in our sheltered crease of the valley. It clings to the thinnest exposed twigs, as if stark winter trees have burst into impossible bloom. Where spring once painted redbud and dogwood with delicate petals, snow now drapes over tight clusters of winter buds, casting a fleeting illusion of white blossoms.
Bamboo, pine, and walnut trees bow low under their winter gowns. Their dark branches, highlighted in white, sketch a world redrawn in stark contrasts. Below, an even blanket of brightness conceals the patchwork of weedy winter lawn, erasing boundaries between sleeping grass and dormant earth.
Stepping outdoors, we enter the clean, humid scent of new snow and a muffled silence that will reign until plows arrive. For now, the valley holds its breath, this perfect stillness broken only by solitary calls of chickadee, blue jay, crow.