By March, or even February, we'll be sick of the snow. I'll be tired of mopping up puddles on the linoleum, and hanging mittens to dry above the heat vent, and clomping around in heavy winter boots. I'll be especially weary of how tense I get behind the wheel of a car when the roads are snow-covered and slippery. I'll be sick of taking photos that are blue and white, or grey and white, or white and white.
But in November, I'm still able to appreciate snow, the way it puts a clean layer of sparkle across muddy yards, the way the curves soften square edges. The lilac bushes and barberry bushes near the house catch the snow, letting it pile up on their branches, and the river birches bend under the snow as if worshipping the season. The brilliant foliage of autumn is gone, but bare branches hold mounds of white against the winter sky.