This morning

our shapes are blurring under miracles of snow.
~ Faded Flowers, Shriekback

I want to write this scene, but I’m suddenly overcome by a fear that I can’t do justice to it. (May as well just not rather than do a shit job, the voice says). I follow the thread of it and find a link to the many instances lately where my confidence has deserted me. The thought, I can’t do anything right is in my head a lot it seems. A one-two punch of the Side Launch “restructuring” (it’s me, no matter what they say, it’s me, I wasn’t enough, the evil voice says) and all that goes on at the ski club (you are utterly useless, says the voice).

I fucking hate that voice. Why am I listening to it? It will never help me do anything with my one wild and precious life. In fact, it will do the opposite.

so fuck it. Here goes.

The morning is glorious, as only bright winter mornings can be. I can tell by Keith’s tire tracks on the driveway that another few centimetres of snow fell last night, adding to the many centimetres that had fallen in the last few days, enough snow to smooth over the footprints to the bird feeder. Our shapes are blurring under miracles of snow, a line from a Shirekback song I love springs unbidden to mind. I whisper it to the birds. They continue fluttering and cheeping around the bird feeder, paying me no mind as I stand at the living room picture window.

The snow looks smooth, but there are blue shadows that soften along the curves of the earth showing small imperfections, dimples and ridges. The crisp angular shadows cast by the trees is a sharp contrast to the contouring.

The trees, oh the trees. They are truly stunning right now. They still have a coating of ice left from the ice storm a week ago, and the sun is turning every twig, every branch into a crystal that reflects and refracts the sunshine. The pines, boughs sweeping low, seem like dark serene sentinels against this brilliance.

A slight breeze, not enough to make the pine branches move but enough to start the ice-covered birch saplings to sway ponderously, picks up light snow of the branches so that it slowly sifts to the ground.

The sky is cloudless, and is the cool pale blue only found in mid-winter, a gradient from an almost white to a soft loveliness of robin’s egg.

It is beautiful; we live in a place where winter is winter.

Neither words nor photo do it justice.

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