Well, that predicted 7 inches for the weekend ended up being 2 feet all over the mid-atlantic, and once again, the dogs (and us younger people) are the only ones delighted by the abundance of perfect powder. Preferring to hunker down, no driveways or porches were shoveled today, and the only track visible in the yard is the pathway to the barn and back to the house. Cows and sheep were clearly relieved (and thus immediately strident) at the appearance of relief, eventually mollified by grain and fresh hay. Unfortunately, the depth of the snow prevented the use of the tractor to move hay bales into the feeder, which necessitated a good hour of forking hay by hand for a pretty unruly crowd. Though an onerous prospect, it's actually rather satisfying and rhythmic work, pitching the mounds of hay, releasing the scent of summer into the crisp winter air. Today the barnyard is a small microcosm of life punctuated by steamy breaths and contented animal sounds in a world rendered silent and empty by the heavy blanket of snow.
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