Sunny and Cold

Before first light, I opened the door, felt the air, and looked at the thermometer as I do every morning. Today it says minus seventeen. I feel a breeze, and loose snow is drifting about as if it can’t decide where to land. I dress for moderate cold—coat, gloves, hat, and bare face—for the ten-minute walk to Sandy’s. Heavy attire is not needed if you do like the locals and keep your walks short.

On the way I see a most beautiful sky. Daybreak is just beginning, a crescent moon in the south. It is the first morning I have seen the moon or stars; overcast has been the norm. But the astounding thing is not so much this crystal clear morning, but the snow-white brilliance of the moon and the fluorescent deep blue of its backdrop. I have never seen a morning sky so beautiful. I have heard that cold air makes the night lovely. And also that clear air makes the night cold. Both are here today, and I have to stop watching before my face freezes.

The counter crew forms up inside Sandy’s—left to right: Bob, Woody, me, Larry, Christina. And before us, Katrina, like a coach with final encouragements before the game. In the background a radio says, “The Weather Service has issued a severe cold warning for today, wind-chill down to minus forty.” The sun begins to rise as we consider the good and the bad of a day like today, the risks and the pleasures. But despite what anyone warns, this day is too beautiful to miss. I must go out in it, feel it, and learn what it wants to teach. Occasionally, I’m amazed at how determined I am to capture this time and place.

Back in my room I put on the full regalia for the cross-town and through-the-woods jaunt to see this bright and sunny day and to do some shopping. Where I follow roads, I tread on packed snow. The main streets are cleared and dry from all the plowing and chemical sprinkling. I usually avoid them in favor of residential streets where snow is packed to a brown icy mat. Some places appear glassy slick, but my slip-resisting boot coils hold firm. I enjoy the squeak of packed snow under my feet, almost musical, like a bird call.

Thawing temperatures have not been felt in over a week, and no new snow has fallen except an occasional powdering. I trudge through soft powder in the woods and fields. Wind has whipped up the flakes and formed them into little drifts that look like white sand dunes.

Crystals grow on grass and twigs, delicate and lifelike as if some winter-spring life has sprung from the dormant plants.








Again, I see the mysterious bicycle track. Its tread appears the same, shown here with my boot print. The coils on my boot leave distinctive marks in the packed snow. I have left these prints beside this bicycle track in many places now. I wonder if he wonders whose they are.








Fog rises from the river as if it boils with fish ready for some giant feast.










The main roads are clear and dry but fluffy powder covers the grass. Most of it fell a week ago and moves with the wind, unable to melt.