I'm sitting alongside the stream, writing with one finger about the sound of the stream, the short icicles hanging randomly from the many alder branches that surround me.
The chair beside me is covered with snow, only where there is solid material. Upward reaching slats arch outward. Two inches of snow, like fluffy white frosting, tops a layer of thinish ice.
I've been walking through the woods. It was so beautiful, snow on every branch, I sickles below. The snow covering everything but the black Stream looks I've always loved the way snow looks on Bent grass.
I cut through or follow the path through the alders to the circular road. The grass underfoot, under the snow, and the soil beneath it, or soft. I hadn't expected it to be soft. It was soft before the snow came, so it's off now.