The sleeping earth is blanketed once again. The soft white coverlet has built up one feather at a time, smoothed and shaped by wind, and now lies unbroken and waiting for the sun's blush. What will the blank page reveal when morning comes? Often it shows me what visitors have come in the night, and I laugh at the rabbit tracks and squirrel tracks, the faint scratches of sparrows. It also conceals, and the shrubs and stones in my yard become indistinct piles and lumps of snow, waiting for warmer weather to be revealed once more.
But for now it's night, and I look out the window at the fresh white crystals encrusting the branches of the larch outside, and hope that the beauty will last until morning.