This Moment: 7:41A.M. January 7, 2011

The insistent drone of a snow blower crows the morning awake. The first snowstorm arrived without introduction during the night. The trees are bent, laden with weight, as if burdened with a heavy secret. The multitudes of crows and geese that have harried the fields these past weeks will be forced south now. It is time for them to go. A lone car passes on the snow packed road. Other than the snow blower, the fire's crackle provides the only sound to break the silence. The old dog readjusts herself on her pillow. She looks like a pasha, forearms crossed, resting on tasseled green satin. The small dog stands at the foot of the bed, a low growl rumbling in his peasant throat, begging a fight. The neighbor across the street shovels his walk and drive as if the snow were a personal insult. In the spring he mows and trims his lawn daily, lying on his side, armed with scissors, cutting renegade blades. After I finally leave the warmth of my blankets, and fire, I will shovel a quick path, then pack the snow on my long gravel driveway. For now I will watch snow falling in muted showers from branches. The view outside my window is a tangle of white.