And so it is snowing again and across the fields and upon the trees the ancient white goddess shows her glory and her impermanence. She is fickle like all goddesses and cold to the touch and across her skin are my footprints and those of my dogs. And across two fields this morning those of a sleek fox.
She colours everything with the same indifference with which she chooses her days to fall. She cares not for our preoccupied minds and needs, but like an artist taking an empty canvas and saying, ‘now’ she draws a thick brush across the canvas and before you know it the canvas is changed into a painting.
And it is the painting she does that allures, that captivates, that draws us out. The softening of all we know, the clouding of all we are used to, into something at once charming and somehow uncertain.
These are the days when no one can hide their footprints and no animal can be anonymous. The days of snow.