Whiteness. Pure whiteness. Falling from the sky, heaping the fenceposts, drifting over the woodpile. Cold brisk air; fresh nitrogen from above, catching ride on the minuscule crystals plummeting from the atmosphere. Transforming the drab brown world into sparkling frosted beauty.
Buster’s view of a snowy day—What excitement, what energy pulses through my veins. I turn somersaults in the air, for the pure joy of being alive on such a beautiful day. A day filled with lovely fluffy fun. I cavort through the stuff, dragging my nose to make winding trails. I take great bites of the whiteness, only to have it disappear on my steaming pink tongue. I scamper in circles, chasing anything that moves. Making rushes at the fastidious cats who daintily pick their way through the cold wetness, lifting each paw as if walking on shards of glass. What silly creatures, don’t they know that snowy days are perfect for sliding, for rolling and romping, for cutting capers and leaping into the brisk air?
My view of a snowy day—The whole world is whiteness, the sky, the air, the landscape all around me. There are no roads, only vast expanses of snow. So I make my own trails. The first footprints across a brand-new canvas. My hands are warm inside cozy black mittens, but my thin rubber boots fail to insulate my feet from the prolonged cold. After I trudge back to the house, I start a load of laundry, brew a fragrant cup of tea, and enjoy a moment of hygge. Outside my window, the snow continues to fall in a steady curtain. It’s a perfect day for bookkeeping and baking. I can rest easy knowing my truck-driving man is home, free from the dangers this weather brings to the highway, at least for today.