Sunday 6:30 a.m. February 22

Snow, lovely snow. It fell in the night and covers all the dirty piles of snow, the ugly ice, sand, salt and dirt on the pavements and lawns.

It’s light, powder snow, full of glittering crystals. The ugly mounds of snow are now like hills of confectionary sugar. No wind has come up yet, at 6:30, to blow it all away.

The trees are still, with white icing on their limbs. They wait for dawn and perhaps a wind.

It’s now 34 degrees and that means melting. The giant icicles that hang from the gutters on the main building at Creamery Brook will loosen today. First they’ll start dripping and then–if it goes up to 44 degrees–drip faster and then some will lose their grip and crash to the ground.

The small forest behind our cottage is white this morning with accents of brown. (I know it’s a swamp but in this time of perfection, it’s a forest.) I want to go out and frolic in the snow piles, but it’s all a stage set and I would stub my toe.


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