Snow Walk

I turned the heater up last night before I went to bed but it's still cold, much colder than yesterday in the house.  My finches are still huddled together like four grey cigars in their little woven bamboo nest.  It's dark outside but a silvery light clings to everything, a heavy fog.  I'm dressed for work with a red fleece pullover and the tea kettle; my finches alarm clock, is on over a glowing burner.  I take a dixie cup of peanuts out to the feeder.  At what temperature will the jays stop flying to my feeder?

 The patio is covered in snow.  Puffy, white, fresh snow.  The air smells clean and is very crisp.  I take a deep breathe.  Winter is here.  Winter is my favorite season.  It's cold and quiet.  Solitude is easy to find and the trails and pathways that lead away from the hustle and bustle are deserted.  Everything is clean and fresh; blanketed for a long sleep in a downy layer of snow. 

All through my shift, between shuttling boxes of speakers and printing price tags for computer hardware, simply fanning the flames of consumerism, I glance out the big greenhouse window at the front of the shop and watch the flurries glide down.  Coworkers and customers alike buzz with both excitement and dread.  Excitement over the first snowfall and dread for the icy roads.  I'm a little nervous about the roads myself; this is the first winter that I haven't had my trusted Jeep.  I do have a pair of boots, snow pants, wool socks, and a bright red down ultra fill jacket in my little blue Honda though.  The hours tick in slow motion.  The clock strikes three and my shift is over.  The foyer reminds me of an airlock.  Inside the store the air is warm and slightly humid, recirculated.  Inside the foyer it's warm and dry and the cold air rushes in. Which has blown the myriad corporate posters into twisted piles near the doors.  Outside, the air is so fresh that it burns my lungs. 

My car is coated in a fine dusting of granular snow.  The engine turns over slowly but surely.  The drive is slow even though the roads haven't had time to freeze.  The sky is shrouded in dense fog but the sun would be low over the mountains.  The parking lot is deserted.  I'm hiking Stratton Open Space.  I quickly change in the back of the car, from corporate servant to adventurer in sixty seconds flat.  It doesn't look like anyone has been here; the snow is fresh and crunches under my boots as I follow my normal route. 

Winter obscures the normal paths though.  There is a rush of excitement, nothing looks the same, it's a whole new trail.  The little creek hasn't frozen over and leaves a characteristic dark line between the white powdered land.  It is choked with brown oak and aspen leaves which are otherwise invisible under the snow.  The trees themselves make for mournful sculptures; jagged sticks reaching towards the sky.  The spruce and pine now rain supreme and what was once a monotonous swath of unbroken green is a white world highlighted by the blue green needles.  There is total silence, not even the jays are out.  The snow is still falling in think flakes. 

I crest the reservoir and turn towards Cheyenne Canyon, there is a jogger in a lime green jacket making good time, some unleashed mutt hard on her heels.  She is running the other way and the isolation returns quickly.  The light is diffused which causes the tan leaves that cling to the grey trees and the grey sky and white earth to blend together seamlessly, which adds to the feeling of a brand new landscape.  At the junction of The Chutes and Chamberlain I wonder if the only creatures that have visited the park today have been me, the jogger and her dog.  A few meters later the Chamberlain branches into Upper Meadows and I take the junction down into the small valley where I called the Cooper's Hawk in earlier in the summer.  Under the same tree a trail of pronged hoof prints leads from north to south across the trail.  More and more of the trails show perfectly in the fresh snow.  The mule deer are moving through the park on their way to overnight wallows. 

Near the parking lot the trail cuts right and The Broadmoor hotel stands, mostly obscured by the fog, beneath the bell tower and much closer to me one of the very same mule deer, a large buck with a full set of antlers watches me, a group of three does are behind him and are also intent on me.  I talk to them softly as I pass by in front of them, promises of apples and celery if they visit me up at the house. 

It is dark and the city of Colorado Springs is hidden by the fog.  My finches are nesting down for the night, Franz Lehars "Gold and Silver Waltz" lilts softly from my phone. I hold a steaming cup of apple cider, watching the snow fall onto the patio. How long will it snow?