On days of high wind and swirling snow, the world here is strangely monochrome. White envelopes the yards, the fields, the roadways. Even the sky becomes the lightest grey colour, and whole houses, whole towns, disappear behind the blur of falling snow. It is possible in this weather to feel utterly alone.
Driving home, I figure out where the road is by familiar landmarks – mailboxes, pine trees, big red barns. The ditches are filled with snow, ready to capture the tire of a car that follows the wrong path or slides on a patch of ice. I can see why red is the traditional colour to paint barns in this part of the country: it's the only colour that sounds out in a white and grey world. Everything else, the bare branches of trees, the mailboxes, the telephone poles, becomes a stark silhouette.
My front yard, this morning.