I can tell it's there before light, before I ever peek through the blinds. Snow makes a perfect quiet, pulling all sound from the air and tucking it neatly between its many shimmering, crystalline layers. Soft, solid silence. It's the first thing I notice when I wake on mornings like these.
It's my dad who taught me to appreciate a walk. Through fields and woods -- beside creeks, rivers, lakes -- shine, rain, snow. He pointed out tracks, broken branches, scars in bark, scat, birds and their songs (I've not heard a bobwhite in years but its song still plays in my head), trees and blossoms and nuts -- beech, hickory, walnut, oak, apple, dogwood. For me, he catalogued countless items found only in the world that makes sense. I also learned that walking is a means to an end, but also an end unto itself. An exchange, with each breath, between self and landscape, inhaling to capture and releasing to set free.
Thanks, Dad. Much love.
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