A Spring Blizzard: by Matthew C. Beaudin, Guide to Colorado “I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”   —Andrew Wyeth It snowed a foot, hushing the birds and blossoms. Even the dog — who does nothing with reservation — was reluctant to plunge into the new blanket pulled over the valley. She waits for me to venture near the wet street before putting a paw into the field timidly, as if she were stepping into black paint. Neither the animals nor the people are prepared for the late spring blizzard. A magpie sat lonely on a branch, and robins hopped in tiny circles, tamping a spot down to rest. The geese huddled on the valley floor, resting their plump chests on the drifts. Snow in the spring is an unwelcome nuisance to nearly every life form. It mutes the tiny sprouts and makes food hard to find for the bears, waking from winter’s long sleep. People face it with a weary determination, pulling their heavy boots from the closet, though the never actually put their boots too far away. Not in Colorado, at least. Winter was slow to arrive here, and never dug in. Storms came to us for trysts, but it was largely dry. When the squalls did come, they were unwanted. For all its difficulties, the spring storm’s beauty is shocking. By this time, the streets have eaten their snowbanks, so every inch of snow one sees is brand new, chalk white. It falls heavier and faster and comes as if it knows it’s fighting for a claim on the rapidly warming earth below. It drapes even the thinnest branches, and, to borrow from Joyce, falls “though the universe … upon all the living and the dead.” Snow doesn’t care where it falls. I shovel it slowly and note an acute nostalgia for a basic chore. January snow turns to dust in the air with even the faintest breath, but these flakes settle heavy; every shovel full is a concrete block. The dog whines with each toss over the railings, as if she’s losing something that will never return. This spring, at least, she may be right. By the end of the evening, she remembered what it was to bound through bottomless drifts, and did so with an easy grace. And I remembered to kick off my boots on the doorframe. Winter is always welcome. It just takes some practice.
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A Spring Blizzard: by Matthew C. Beaudin, Guide to Colorado

“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” 

 —Andrew Wyeth

It snowed a foot, hushing the birds and blossoms.

Even the dog — who does nothing with reservation — was reluctant to plunge into the new blanket pulled over the valley. She waits for me to venture near the wet street before putting a paw into the field timidly, as if she were stepping into black paint.

Neither the animals nor the people are prepared for the late spring blizzard. A magpie sat lonely on a branch, and robins hopped in tiny circles, tamping a spot down to rest. The geese huddled on the valley floor, resting their plump chests on the drifts.

Snow in the spring is an unwelcome nuisance to nearly every life form. It mutes the tiny sprouts and makes food hard to find for the bears, waking from winter’s long sleep. People face it with a weary determination, pulling their heavy boots from the closet, though the never actually put their boots too far away. Not in Colorado, at least.

Winter was slow to arrive here, and never dug in. Storms came to us for trysts, but it was largely dry. When the squalls did come, they were unwanted.

For all its difficulties, the spring storm’s beauty is shocking. By this time, the streets have eaten their snowbanks, so every inch of snow one sees is brand new, chalk white.

It falls heavier and faster and comes as if it knows it’s fighting for a claim on the rapidly warming earth below. It drapes even the thinnest branches, and, to borrow from Joyce, falls “though the universe … upon all the living and the dead.” Snow doesn’t care where it falls.

I shovel it slowly and note an acute nostalgia for a basic chore.

January snow turns to dust in the air with even the faintest breath, but these flakes settle heavy; every shovel full is a concrete block. The dog whines with each toss over the railings, as if she’s losing something that will never return. This spring, at least, she may be right.

By the end of the evening, she remembered what it was to bound through bottomless drifts, and did so with an easy grace. And I remembered to kick off my boots on the doorframe.

Winter is always welcome. It just takes some practice.

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