As daylight gathers, the sky goes from white to gray. A train whistle trailed by its rumble of freight. The distant propellers of a plane.
Steady rain. The corners of the yard still glisten dully with the pellet ice that fell in the night.
A squirrel tumbles out of the big maple and catches itself in the top of a locust sapling, tail wrapping around the branch like a fifth leg.
The sun flickers as thin clouds drift past. In the otherwise still meadow, one bent head of brome grass is swaying.
The snow seems on the verge of stopping for several hours. The trees turn white. My guests go out and return with snow in their hair.
Sunrise turns the western ridge crimson. Chickadees and titmice flit through the branches, calling, while we stand snapping pictures.
A few flakes come swirling out of the woods. A dried oak leaf lies on the porch floor like a sad umbrella or a mouse with too many legs.