I’m grateful to be in rural Canada, where overnight snow dusted the land as prettily as a Currier & Ives painting.
Red barns, white limestone buildings, grain silos, and solid red brick houses made this snowscape seem several centuries old.
I’m grateful for the squeak and crunch of new snow underfoot, and the pastoral landscape that unfolded slowly past our train windows.
After several snow-less months, it was almost comforting to see two men shoveling snow in perfect tandem, sharing the rhythmic labor in the cold. An Irish setter looked especially gorgeous, dancing in the fresh snow.
A hawk swept over a snow-draped cornfield, where Canadian geese had gathered for an early feed. Gently rolling hills, with a church steeple rising above the treetops, made me grateful to return to my other home.
Rivers ran cold, without ice, and evergreens stooped to the water with a new burden of snow.
I’m grateful for the time for relaxed train travel, and for the time to watch snow drifting quietly across a tranquil landscape.