Fresh snow curls in a graceful wave behind each tire of the first car to go down the driveway. Minutes later, the whine of a car in reverse.

Tickticktick—sleet slipping through the forest’s net of twigs. Grains with no hourglass, a rush order for all who dream of the beach.

Last night, I watched a meteor blaze across a hole in the white clouds. This morning, a full palette of grays. The local star peeks through.

Another cold and misty morning. The last of the snow is gone from the hillside. Pressed flat, the leaf litter still glows faintly red.

Two degrees above freezing and the snow has lost all its magic. The roof drips. Old footprints grow round and dark as spots on dice.

White ground, white sky, and in the treetops seven crows gather for a noisy meeting. One of them keeps chanting the same, 5-syllable phrase.

The wind no longer howls, but now the merest breeze provokes a chorus of moans and shrieks. The oaks are finally almost all naked.