I must snow shoe to create a trail over more than a foot of pristine snow. Underneath are layers and layers of everything that dropped from above or grew from below. Charlie buries his nose in the buried world he senses.

Last night I wrote in my blog how a new covering of snow is like the white paint I slather over a bottom layer of collage. Some time after the storm stopped last night a dried maple wing spiraled down, down to rest on the white canvas.

I press along on my snow shoes, the dogs are running ahead making a trail - they must be freezing; our time will be shortened. Under the pines, I pick up a handful of delicate, paper thin bark for a collage I hope to make today. I want the trees to come in with me. I don't want to go in at all; I want to stay out looking for small beautiful figures on the snow. But I have an appointment I must keep, and the dogs need to warm their feet by the fire.