A fresh inch of wet snow, clinging to every twig—the forest refoliated in white. But already the roof has begun to drip.

The ground is once again armored in white. Gusts of wind materialize like minor demons, treetops crashing together, dropping dead limbs.

A skim of snow overnight; a front has blown in and the birds are so much quieter. But a cold, gray morning is fine for gray squirrel romance: a pair ascend a young tulip tree together, touching often, and descend the adjacent walnut tree, nose to tail.

Mid morning, and the strong sunlight reveals in every shadow-casting hummock how snugly the ground’s coat of snow has come to fit.