And I listened. Snow at night is something else. Our chickens are in their coop, and our aging golden retriever hobbled through the snow, probably grateful for the grip, so I was far from being alone, the lights from the kitchen leaning out, my children's shrieking laughter wafting out from the barely-shut patio door. I'm trying to get the sounds of it. There's so much to it: the shushing, the creaking, the rubbing of wood on wood, the popping as the crystals break. And so much of it, too, still silence. Thinking to this manuscript: what would it sound like if it seemed to never stop? How would that sound change over time? Over days, weeks? Can the sound ever be flushed once it does finally stop?
When we moved into the converted church along the river where my husband went to gradate school, everyone gaped at how close the train ran. I thought it would torture my sleep, but the opposite occurred: it lulled. And I missed it. Eventually, we moved back to a house not far from the tracks again and our visitors struggle with it, but to us, it's a part of the night's soundscape.
Snow's sounds change the more you have too: the weight of it, the pressure, the ache of it.
For now, I'm looking closely. Watching and listening.
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