Eighteen inches. It snowed eighteen inches in one day. Now some of you are rolling your eyes and laughing at this. Some of you see eighteen inches of snow in two hours. Some of you only see snow when you watch the Winter Olympics (and why are YOU watching winter sports you’d never participate in since you are without anything deserving the name "winter"? Yes, this former Californian has become a winter-snob). However, SOME of us aren’t used to eighteen inches of snow in one day.
Nor are we accustomed to having the ground so saturated and the temperature so consistently below freezing that our gardens are hidden from view, and our snow-heavy trees are bent so far over they look ironically like arbors at Santa’s Village.
I turn around just in time to see the Douglas Firs and Western Red Cedars menace our house with their white bulk. They fill the air with groans and sudden cracks as another limb breaks from the trunk and crashes to the ground.
But when it just barely started to warm up, when the sun burned through the iron-grey skies for just a few hours, something lovely happened. First, a few large mounds of snow slid off a branch of one of our towering trees and crashed to the ground with sparks of snow-bits leaping into the air. Then another. And then another. They had held on through the snow-weight and cold. Now, the newly released branches sprang back up into place, animating the frozen forest. So magical. Then so many that it seemed like arboreal slapstick. Alas, no photos. Too busy watching and laughing.
Then the ice in the pond began to break up and recede, and a few ducks attempted a swim. Soon, I think, it might be spring.