Snowscape

Our walk last night was in a proper snowstorm: tiny, hard flakes lightly driven into our faces by a steady breeze. We’d already gotten well over an inch when we left and it kept up the whole time we were out.

There’s so much light in the winter when it snows. According to the almanac there was a full moon, but it was hidden by the clouds that poured snow out into the night. The city lights reflected off the low clouds, the falling snow and the bright white blanket spreading out and growing thicker by the hour. Only the trunks of the trees and a few dim shadows provided darkness—everything else glowed softly from endless ricochets of light between clouds and snow.

Sounds were attenuated as much as the as the light was enhanced. The occasional car passing by was muted and muffled. No echoes responded to our voices if we spoke. We accidentally startled some ducks as we walked by a pond, but even the relatively loud quacks and flapping of wings were quickly hushed by the snow.

It was the kind of quiet that might make you look around a little bit more to see what, ordinarily, you would be alerted to by sound. To avoid being surprised like drowsy ducks. Sound informs us what is all around—360 degrees of auditory early warning. But it was still; the kind of quiet that settles the mind.

Deepening snow seems to absorb as much effort as noise: walking became more deliberate, more like trudging as we passed through areas where drifting had begun. Our outgoing tracks were nearly filled in when we returned—the once crisp outlines as softened and diminished as the sounds of our footfalls.

I was surprised that I didn’t even hear the snowplow pass outside the bedroom window early this morning. Drowsy ducks, indeed.