the winter garden

The first hours of winter arrive in silence. As the sharp cold moves in, and temperatures steadily drop, the muffled acoustics are replaced by the scraping of snowploughs and the cracking of ice on the distant river. Together, they become a cacophonous soundscape of shattering glass and a faraway deep rumble, pierced occasionally by an abrasive metal on metal. Painted black and white, the countryside is a shimmering cloak of amorphous shapes apart from the pointy leafless branches of creaking trees whose nighttime veiny shadows are the opposite--of soft undulations. Any item forgotten is now a season away, when the world melts. Driveways are shovelled, paths are forged, sinewy routes are carved. Winter settles into its short days of dark mornings, mottled lunchtime light, and dimly lit afternoons. Shadows shift, deepen and darken. Underfoot, depending on the coolness of the air, the density of the snow or one’s weight, a step is either barely audible or a high squeak. Some nights, the air leaves a hoar frost on the scarf covering one’s mouth. Conifer trees shake their snow laden arms, and even in the dim light, invoke the memory of a deep colour green.