A metallic grey morning sky slung low across the tops of the distant hills and the cows in the pasture stood like statues. An expectant promise hung in the air as I stood at the glass French doors with coffee in hand, looking out across the cold courtyard toward the row of Arborvitae trees that stood stately to the right, across from the road.
My eyes took in the piles of leaves snuggled into the corners of the wall surrounding the courtyard where they had escaped the winter winds that had recently swept through. At my feet, standing at attention, tails twitching, the cats seemed to see things that I could not. The air was charged, quiet and cold.
And then they came. Only a few at first, blowing about, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Suddenly the air was filled with a tangle of tiny white specks falling from the sky in a chaotic symphony of silence. The ground received the blanket of snow as if it was a familiar friend and the Arborvitae caught it in clumps of white into their outstretched green limbs.
As the world changed it’s appearance from gray to white, so the snow flakes began to change to larger pieces of lace falling to the ground in surreal slow motion.
Soon the ground was covered and the big, lazy flakes changed again to white flecks, not so profuse, but irregularly falling until finally stopping, leaving me and my cats in peace and soft silence.
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