This morning we woke to a light late snowfall lying over the farm. It was like this when we came here in February of 1998. We were thrilled to find snow falling on our farm at 1,100 feet elevation. Our position in the hills puts us about 3 weeks behind the Valley in the spring calendar. Bud break is a little later up here, the crocuses and tulips are delayed, the blossoms of cherry and plum come later. Right now, though, the wood violets are blooming. First signs of the change of seasons. This morning they were blanketed away, hidden beneath that nothing-lovlier-than fresh snow.
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Flakes fell as I went out to feed the critters. I wear my old felt hat in winter. It was somebody’s expensive beaver felt cowboy hat once . I bought it after its days of glory, in a second-hand shop. The crease in the top is long gone and punched up into a dome. The sides have lost their cowboy curl. They sweep wide over my ears and are most excellent in rain or snow. The back brim is curled up. This is a perfect hat for winter weather. It can be worn front or back forward!
It’s not only humans who respond to the snow. William the mule greeted me with frisky snorts and a jaunty canter up to the barn. It seemed he had a lot to say about the weather. The sheep here jumping around. Yes, they jump, these sheep. More on them later. The hens were, as always, a little grumpy at any sudden change in the setting. They are happiest in high summer when they lie basking in bowls of dust and the weather is the same for weeks on end.
Me, I am still thrilled with the snow. We have it when no one in Town has a inkling of it. We have the flutter of snowflakes at morning feeding, the damped down sound of the woods in the evening, the brighter light that leaps from ground to air after a snowfall, and that slightly metallic smell that always had, when we were small, the barest hope of a day without school.