Wool Threads

Few things are more magical than waking up to a world gone white. Snowstorms are silent. Snow can fall all night, and you won’t hear it. To me fresh snow calls up memories of walking to the school bus. My rubber boots crunching in the snow and eating mittenfuls of it waiting for the bus, the wool threads touching my tongue.

Fresh snow has a short life. The snow falls off the trees, the pristine blanket is broken and dirtied, the dream of it passing quickly. That’s what was going on when I made this photograph on the back road to Robie Creek, high above Boise. The snow already gone gray and fouled at the edges. The fog burning off, a couple more hours and it’d be bright and sunny.

I didn’t drive down the road. Too afraid to slide off.

I made this photograph instead.