Falling Snow

Daily Note

Every day, a photograph, a poem. Yesterday, the mule deer sauntered into the back yard, foraging for dinner. An entire small herd, search, rooting out beneath the freshly fallen snow. And every time I look out my window in winter, I see the snow piled high on the outdoor furniture, fence posts, and trees. It’s something I am always amazed at because where I grew up, in North Dakota, the snow never fell— it blew hard against your body, freezing cold, and forming huge drifts against anything strong enough to hold it back, forcing the snow into pressed piles of hard snow beside fence, building, tree, car. It was not something to look forward to.

• Blizzard of 1966, North Dakota
• North Dakota Snowstorms History
• North Dakota Studies: Blizzards
• Wes Peck Snow Drift on Flickr
• Wes Peck Blowing Snow on Flickr

North Dakota

Poetry

Falling Snow

I watch today, the mule deer
Foraging in the backyard,
Just beyond the table,
Piled high with freshly fallen,
Glistening snowflakes;
And I I remember my first snowfall in Spokane
Moving from North Dakota in 1971;
I can see the door of the small house,
A small window within, and
out that window, to the big pine tree
and the huge fluffy snowflakes
slowly falling down—
Falling, not drifting—
I had never seen that-
Falling snow—
The snow grew in piles
on pine branches
and a neighbor’s fence post;
I ran out and opened my arms
Looking up, twirling in wonder at
Crystals falling
Ever so gently,
One atop another in my hands
On my nose—
Imagine: the snow just built up —
it didn’t blow away
it didn’t drift
blowing sideways
slamming against your face
or into the fence or walls
or cars or trees
like a wall of
pressed ice.
It fell.
It fell
Gently
Into soft piles
Of giant crystals
I wasn’t in Ka–
I mean,
North Dakota
anymore.

010722 007.365.22
Poetry Sheri Edwards
Photography Scott Hunter