Moon on Snow

The word shimmers with that golden glow peculiar to moon shining on white snow. It’s cold. And late. The Paul Bunyan trail stretches silently before me in the darkness. Snow drooped trees line the path. A moonbeam illumines the track of a single snowmobile, creating a yellow Oz-like road. The distinct smell of an engine lingers in the emptiness. In the distance, I hear the whine of a retreating sled.

I’m glad for the stillness. It seems a fitting setting for these final days of the year, after the hubbub of the Christmas season. The cottony layer muffles every sound except the crunch of my boots in the new fallen wetness. I slap red-mittened hands together and tuck the matching muffler closer around my neck. My breath lingers in puffy vapor before my mouth. I feel my eyelashes thicken and freeze.

Cold, snow and silence.

It's funny. The pines candle in the green of springtime as it were Christmas, but now that the season is here, they struggle under their snowy burden as if bearing the cares of the world. Their branches bow almost to the ground. I can relate. The world has had more than its share of bad news lately. As the year grinds to an end, I contemplate war and suffering, think of those who experience sickness and loss, and consider my life's direction.

A sudden crash of sliding snow interrupts my thoughts. A gust of wind causes a miniature avalanche. Wet snow slips to the ground with thudding staccato. The elegant pines spring back into place with green branches lifted high towards the heavens. Almost like a prayer.

A radio tower flashes red in the distance and above me the Milky Way spreads a glittering feast. A chugging snowplow heads south on Highway 371.

I turn and follow the ribbon of moonlight back to my house. Comforted.