On Wednesday the snow started in mid-afternoon, coming down in fat, fluffy white flakes the size of quarters. I stood in the kitchen, looking out at the farm, and watched the world turn whiter and whiter, like standing inside the glass of a snow globe that was being shaken slowly.
Walking outside in the height of the snowstorm was beautiful, to put it lightly. Although the farm is always quiet by most people’s standards, I’m attuned to its noises: the tittering of cardinals and white-breasted nuthatches at the bird feeder, the snuffling of our Yorkshire pig Elliot as he ambles around the edge of the stream, the heavy breathing of the four Jersey cows plodding from the upper pasture, the lonely echoing call of geese high overhead.
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