The snow fills the air more than it falls. Without the light on the night is bright in its white velvet cover, a soft brightness. The air is still and muffled. Even sounds that one scarcely hears on a quiet morning are missing — a soft rustle of wind in the trees, the soft creak of a rusted gate hinge as it swings in a slight breeze, a murmur and twitter of birds in the far trees. The air is beyond quiet.
Much snow has fallen in the night, more than last night’s weather report said to expect. Boots sink into it softly and deeply, the ground turning up far beneath the blanket. The steps to the garage are slow and deep in the light snow. Yesterday there had traces from the winter, melting. A puddle in the middle of the drive, crusted and jagged edges of ice in the shady stretches along the barn and the drive. Hard fragments that crackled and crunched beneath boots. This morning the hard edges are all whited over in vague round shapes, the snow rustling so slightly as it falls and piles and smooths over the brittle dark edges of late winter. Across the open field the trees are frosted white. They ripple and shimmer in the snowfilled air.
The sky overhead is grey, indefinite. Little flakes fall on your cheeks and eyelashes as you turn your face up, not so hard or biting at this time of year. Here and there is a swirl in the low clouds, the quiet roll of clouds and wind and water billowing down across the prairie from far Alberta, across the open rolling plain, to drop and swirl here, where you stand. A sweet and soft kiss as the season says its slow goodbye.