This is New. This is Old.

In Here at Eagle Pond, Donald Hall’s book of essay on moving back to the Hall family farm in New Hampshire, he talks of snow. How when snow falls, the view off his front porch becomes timeless. It could be 1803 when the house was built. It could be 1879, when his grandmother was born in the house. Or it could be 1985 or 1995. The only way to know the year is to watch and wait to see what sort of vehicle passes by on the carriage road at the bottom of the hill.

My front step disappeared yesterday afternoon in the snow. By this morning, the second step was gone, hidden, waiting for my snow shovel to search it out again.

Snow renews the landscape.

Some like the spring, with the new growth, the chartreuse budding of the aspens and cottonwoods. In my mind, the timeless brush of snow sets everything right for me. With a few inches, all the debris, the mis-guided (and the well-guided) progress of civilization is swept away. We are reduced to simple elements. Staying dry. Staying warm. Eating well. That’s the core of passing through a snowy day. And a little jaunt to the mountain to track it out.

This morning, looking out my office window, the mountain ash stood absolutely still with four or five centimeters of snow stacked, outlining every branch, every twig and the few remaining berry bunches. There had been little wind with the snow. Just falling snow establishing an outline of what lies below.

Walking home from the office last night, flakes caught on my eyelashes and brushed my cheeks. The night was fresh. Winter returned. All was new again. As I stepped into the warmth of my house, I looked forward to an evening sitting by the window, reading and watching the snow fall through the streetlight’s cone across the street. In the first essay I read, Donald Hall spoke of how fresh snow renews and creates a timeless landscape.