Snow falling from trees

Last night there was an inch or so of fresh wet snow. After dropping my daughter off at the airport at about 7:00 a.m., I returned home through Winchester. This route runs by Whipple Hill.

A few rays of sunlight illuminated the tops of the hills, and they appeared as if dusted with confectioner's sugar, brilliant white. I had to take a closer look, so I stopped at the little parking lot at the base of Whipple Hill on Johnson/Winchester Road (at the Lexington/Winchester line).

I took an old towel and blanket from the back of the car with me as I walked up to the top of Whipple Hill, making the morning's first tracks in the thin snow. The snow was already starting to drop off the branches as the rising sun made its presence known to all, and the temperature moved well above freezing.

The rocks at the top of Whipple Hill were bare of snow, so I spread out my towel and assumed a lotus position, wrapping myself in the blanket.

Everywhere, the snow dripped, dripped. White blobs slid, tumbled, pulling tiny avalanches from the lower twigs and branches. Follen Hill, visible across the Great Meadow, was crowned with white, but I knew it too would soon lose its sugar coating to the cruel warmth of the sun, even as the clouds softened the direct rays. Visible changes of the dripping snow falling from every branch, little by little, fed my contemplation. Here the change was visible, but truly, every instant, every part of the world is changing. Here an insect waves its antennae, there a bud emerges, a leaf falls, a wind current pushes a branch. A person is born. Another dies. Change. Drip, drip.

A man with a dog. A couple with British accents and a dog. Cheery greetings, returning to watch the changes. Follen Hill dark now, melted. Snow dripping still all around, but many dark branches have shed their white skins. Dark branch. Rain on the temple roof. Just this.