There is something so magical and transcendent about the freshly fallen snow.
It seems to mute the incessant white noise of an ordinary day. It pulls the details that are always in the forefront to the back, highlights the bits that easily go un-noticed—like the crystalline emptiness of the sky, the exact pencil-line of branches. Something in the juxtaposition makes new details emerge into view.
I always think of fresh snow on the yard as a blank canvas. I secretly want to be the first to shatter its perfect flatness. (Now that Opal is four, we race for the honor.)