The snow started falling just after noon.
By 2 p.m. it was difficult to see more than a few feet away.
By 5 p.m. the ground was covered with a thick layer of snow. The roads were covered. And the snow still fell.
By 6 p.m. the footprints left just a couple of hours earlier were gone. And the snow still fell.
By 9 p.m. the snow still fell, but the fury of the earlier hours was gone. New footprints in snow deeper than I’ve seen in years. The trail leads down the hill. As I stand in the middle of the field behind my house, there is silence.
The wind is still. No sounds of distant cars on the highway. The snow dampens what little sound is made by the dog, bounding excitedly through the white, fluffy world.
I stand there, watching the pale moon play hide and seek behind the clouds, and enjoy a world wrapped in silence, covered in white.
So rare. Here.
My shoes are inadequate for the ankle-deep snow and, after only a few minutes, the cold and wet starts to seep in. Reluctantly, I retrace my path back up the hill, not wanting to further disturb the unbroken canvas of white spread across the field.
Door closed. Shoes off. The silence left outside.