The First Snowfall -41

In Search of a Wisewoman

The first snowfall is late this year. Never have I been better prepared as the fall days stretched out longer than I have ever remembered. The killing frost seemed to have lost its baggage so never dropped in as it usually does, weeks before this. Last night the moon cast its silver pall over the landscape making me look harder at the roofs to see if it was a dusting of snow? I fit in a late morning walk wearing running shoes but knowing the boots needed to be excavated from the depths of a closet along with toques and mitts, scarves and parka.

I knew it was coming. The cat had done his patrol of his estate and then came in, settling in the dark corner of the basement couch, wrapping his plumy tail over his nose and emitting an air of “hold my calls.” He had done a few of his “Lear jet performances” yesterday where he suddenly breaks into a dash around the house, stopping my heart at this sudden action. This is his barometer saying, “Snow coming!”

A fine precipitation had been falling that was not really definable so I call it “wetting” as opposed to raining or snowing. Just before tea time the flakes thickened and began the ermine etching of branchlets. An odd silence seems to come with the first snowfall. I recall the words of Carl Sandburg in his poem “Fog” “ … the fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbour and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” This first snow will move on. It is just a tease and yet, as old as I am, the first snowfall has its own magic.