I am enchanted by snow. Fallen snow is sinuous and soundless. Falling snow is hypnotic, whether viewed on my 80” flat screen world wide window or from skis in the woods; it swirls in clouds, then cascades from spruce boughs.

On this tenth night of soundless and hypnotic snow Willow Creek has disappeared, suggested only by a mere depression out there in the valley, running black beneath a white canopy as winter rivers do.

The burdened trees sway ponderously in the west wind. One will surely snap under stress and lie rotting on the forest floor for four or five decades, at least. We will watch the log decay and I will show grandchildren where the tree stood so they will know and may be enchanted again.