The white world was quite impressive. The early snow had been damp, but what fell later was very dry and thus stuck well to even the flimsiest twigs and pine needles. By dawn, the mulberry tree was so thick with snow that it presented a canopy as dense as though it were covered in summer foliage, hiding the sky above it. I watched the morning light grow as the snow ended, all the trees densely rimed, and the utility lines were draped above the street like festive wedding decorations.
After a while, each thing began to shed its chilly burden. Long, snake-supple ropes of white dropped from the wires into the white street, and cascades of snow fell from the pines. The weight of a blue jay could set off a small avalanche from an oak branch or a pine. The air was filled with the pphlumpph of snow hitting snow, which from inside the house sounded much the way distant mortar fire sounds in old war movies. I kept thinking of the Somme as I returned to sleep, and I'm surprised I didn't dream of battles from an earlier age.
All in all, we got about six and a half airy inches at this elevation. The town's plow finally cleared the street about two o'clock, and the mail was delivered shortly thereafter, but I never got my morning paper. I think the delivery guy lives farther up the ridge and he was probably snowed in completely. Either that or he's a total wuss. I get two papers tomorrow, though, if it doesn't snow again tonight and trap us all. It is still a bit cloudy.
Oh, easterners be forewarned: This one's cold.
