A winter day

I fell in love with snow as a child.
Bundled in snow pants and the bulky hand-knit hats and mittens that grown-ups chose to do without, as they race from their warm homes or businesses to snowy cars in no more than a sweater and street shoes, becoming miserably chilled from scraping ice off a windshield with a credit card or bare hand—I delighted in the wintry world.
Dragging toboggans or with saucers tucked under our arms, we’d trudge through the woodlots behind our homes and spend the day sledding on the sand hills, covered with snow. For months, every radiator in our house was piled high with a continuous stream of the day’s icy, shed garments. The neighborhood basketball courts would be flooded for ice skating, and every yard sprouted a smiling snowman.

Now, in our more southern home, snow is light and infrequent.
I wait eagerly for the forecast of flurries, hoping it will necessitate a reunion with my favorite woolens—tucked away in a cedar closet for ten months, waiting for their few weeks of service.

The morning light is just beginning to filter through the trees.

Last night's frosty air settled on the few blades of grass and leaves not beneath snow.




And as soon as the ice is thick on the pond, we will hurriedly shovel paths.
There will only be a few days to play Fox & Geese.