The snow began to fall shortly after noon and it is still coming down in those thick feathery early-winter flakes. When I left my house at seven to head to the barn for an evening of volunteer work, I left a narrow trail up the hill, across the open paddock and up the barn ramp. I spent the evening with about 15 other women from the village making packages of paper bags and candles for luminaria to sell at the children�s Christmas party in a week and a half. The whole village lights up with candles on Christmas Eve � every street and many driveways are lined with light.

On my way home, however, I found little need of light. The full moon, hidden behind the dense white clouds still left enough of a glow on the white, white world � every inch of every branch of every tree is covered � to see my way home almost as clearly as if it were afternoon. The sounds are muffled, save the �squinch squinch� (if I may borrow an onomatopoeia from P.D.Q. Bach�s �Good King John� that has always seemed to me to be the perfect description of the crunching of snow underfoot) of my boots. My neighbor, whom I saw this evening, said she�d been seeing coyotes pacing a line between our yards at night. As I entered the cave-like stretch of road under snow-laden trees, I was on the lookout, half expecting to see them in the weird half-light of the storm. But there were no coyotes, only a distant howl that was probably a dog. Probably.

[Second entry today. Click back for a holiday music review.]

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