A Thanksgiving Snow

The snow began on Tuesday night and I woke up Wednesday to a world covered in white. It drifted down softly, in large and small flakes, throughout the morning. When I went outdoors to shovel a path, the air was cool but not frigid, the wind was still, the sky was covered with clouds, ten inches of snow had fallen; it was a beautiful day.




On Thanksgiving morning, snow still clung to every branch and remaining leaf, each dried fruit, their dark shapes creating a drama on a white stage.




The stems of the honeysuckle vine by the front door are encased in a glistening gift package of ice.




Annabelle, with her bronzed dried heads, bows to the weight of snow, her stems writing bright lines with weathered wood as backdrop.




A more delicate profusion of gathered lines, interrupted by dollops of soft snow, is formed by dried grasses at the side of the pond.



And in the vegetable garden, a few remaining leaves of kale, dressed for a ball with an elegant headdress of snow. The garden season is over: I've taken down the fence and left these last bits for the deer to eat. This morning, Friday, the tracks of several deer crisscross the field; stems are all that remain.