Approaching New Heights
We stand a lot taller now on the ravine trails. The layer upon layer of snow has lifted us to new heights. We can actually see the difference, the disparity in where we once stood in respect to the opposing heights of easily identifiable landmarks. Branches low on trees which we once handily walked under with no space competition now threaten to lop our heads off, at these new heights. Or, at the very least, catch our wool toques.
This is a balmy winter day, albeit deeply overcast. The stroll down our street now to reach the trail into the ravine is almost as difficult to negotiate as the ravine trails themselves. Some people in clearing out their driveways see the utility of simply shovelling snow onto the street; clearing their drives, littering the road. A road already insufficiently plowed by the municipality. And in those areas the snow is deep, loose and dirtily inconvenient to navigate.
In the ravine, the snow cradles the landscape, utterly transforming it, transfixing us in wonder. We we have a tendency to somehow forget its transcendent, luminescent beauty from one winter to the next. We do have a dim recollection of its effect on our gaze, but the reality of the snow-covered ravine, its laden trees and frozen, covered creek doesn't come truly alive until we face it once again.
Everything is deep in snow's embrace. It softens, muffles ambient sound. All is still, but for our own heavy breathing, slowly surging uphill in single file on the narrowly defined path. then, the sound of a nuthatch nearby. Must also be chickadees along with it, but we see none at all flitting through the trees.
It's a kindly minus-6 degrees, no wind to speak of. We have the ravine to ourselves. Not entirely, however. We see rabbit tracks, and the minute trail made by mice, so light they leave their delicately patterned evidence on the fresh face of new snow. Despite the lack of wind, occasionally heavily-laden branches release their burden and an avalanche of snow descends in slow motion from the spire to the bottom boughs of firs.
Sound breaks the barrier of silence as a plane passes high above the dense clouds, in the chill, upper atmosphere.
This is a balmy winter day, albeit deeply overcast. The stroll down our street now to reach the trail into the ravine is almost as difficult to negotiate as the ravine trails themselves. Some people in clearing out their driveways see the utility of simply shovelling snow onto the street; clearing their drives, littering the road. A road already insufficiently plowed by the municipality. And in those areas the snow is deep, loose and dirtily inconvenient to navigate.
In the ravine, the snow cradles the landscape, utterly transforming it, transfixing us in wonder. We we have a tendency to somehow forget its transcendent, luminescent beauty from one winter to the next. We do have a dim recollection of its effect on our gaze, but the reality of the snow-covered ravine, its laden trees and frozen, covered creek doesn't come truly alive until we face it once again.
Everything is deep in snow's embrace. It softens, muffles ambient sound. All is still, but for our own heavy breathing, slowly surging uphill in single file on the narrowly defined path. then, the sound of a nuthatch nearby. Must also be chickadees along with it, but we see none at all flitting through the trees.
It's a kindly minus-6 degrees, no wind to speak of. We have the ravine to ourselves. Not entirely, however. We see rabbit tracks, and the minute trail made by mice, so light they leave their delicately patterned evidence on the fresh face of new snow. Despite the lack of wind, occasionally heavily-laden branches release their burden and an avalanche of snow descends in slow motion from the spire to the bottom boughs of firs.
Sound breaks the barrier of silence as a plane passes high above the dense clouds, in the chill, upper atmosphere.
Labels: Environment, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 7:20 PM
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