At our Vermont inn, the snow only seems a little bit whiter at first glance. I suppose because there's so much of it, and so much space for it, and the fact it just sits there undisturbed in our Putney fields and hills.
Earlier today, we're out raking the roof and shoveling the deck and the walk at Hickory Ridge House. There's about a foot of snow on the roof and none of it has melted -- it flies off as powder. A wind whips up some of the snow in the meadow, and it moves in a pattern that reminds me of the Aurora Borealis.
The first snow of the year was heavier. It hung on the stands of trees that surround us, and as the wind blew, the snow moved off the branches in sheets, almost a whiteout if you were standing under them.
It occurs to me, late in the afternoon, with the sky clearing a bit -- purple grey clouds off to the north, big patches of bright pale blue sky and cottony clouds with overtones of orange, pink and bright yellow to the south and east -- that snow isn't white at all.
Snow is like water, it reflects like water. And I see, around the cottage, snow that's shaded with purple and grey, and out in the meadow, near the cross-country ski trail, bands of yellow and orange. It has to strike you, that image, and when it does, you see it everywhere, the subtle sky reflected in the whiteness of snow. White fields alive with the suggestion of color.
Away from cities and suburbs, and the debris that gets deposited on snow, snow has a different appearance. Here, it reminds of Monet's winter paintings.
Miriam says, it's time to get snowshoes.