Out early into the storm; it has snowed enough for x-country skies, and the dogs, as always, are eager in every weather. We ski across the field to the river, unfrozen, pelted with fast falling flakes. My cell phone rings, my husband, driving home from his very early meeting says the wind's picking up, and maybe I should go up to ski the wide open hospital fields instead of the woods, and I think, no, I won't, but then, the wind is picking up a bit and branches are broken everywhere off the strained tree limbs. So, with the dogs and the skis in the back, I drive the short distance, and now I'm determined to make it a long ski, I think the wind and driving snow will be tolerable - pleasant even - the dogs don't mind, and so we're off, but the meadow snow is thick and wet, too sticky, my skis won't glide and I try scraping them clean of wet snow once or twice, to keep going, but after twenty minutes I give up, because I'm not skiing, really, I'm just thumping along in my snow heavy skis, and the wind's picking up and my face is pelted with sharp little flakes. We drive home and the dogs go inside and I stay out and shovel, taking my turn, and inside it's warm, there's a fire in the hearth and the snow falls and falls and fills everything up as I write through the day by the fire, and everyone's home, filling the house, the dogs, the three grown kids, the girlfriend of one, and my husband in his home office working. We cook a snow day dinner, eat together, and the snow is still falling all over the dark outdoors.

All photos and text copyright Kelly DuMar 2018