The snow is pure white, heavy and wet, making instant memories of every footstep, hushing every sound.
The pine trees slump under their burden, flashes of color deep in the branches showing where the cardinals rest
between visits to the feeder.
The air smells wet, white, and cold, fresh and pure it fills me with energy.
My scarf is warm across my face, my heavy hunting pants and old sorels insulate me like a cocoon as I move through the drifts.
Gray-white clouds move slowly across the gray-white sky, trailing snow showers like heavy skirts. Snowflakes veil the distant fields, closing in until no other houses or barns can be seen.
For this little time my little place on this earth is peaceful, unspoiled and fresh, almost primeval and I revel in the quiet.