Six inches of snow and counting, and my backyard menagerie is MIA.

My meadow’s usual cast of characters — the hawk, the fox, the spindly-legged deer, the tail-twitching squirrels — are all AWOL, presumably holed up in dens or copses of trees, doing what smart animals do when the weather turns serious.

But then, a flash of feathers in the leafless canopy. Apparently flight school for the airborne is not cancelled due to inclement weather.

Sparrows triple their normal size, puffed up like tiny weightlifters in winter coats. They pause in the crook of the spindly trees to consolidate their warmth before dive-bombing their neighbors. Mama and Papa cardinal do their helicopter-style takeoffs and landings — up, down, up again, red streaks against the white and grey. The scarlet-headed woodpecker, white bands across his black wings, relentlessly pounds away in the V of the branches of my river oak, like a drummer who hasn’t noticed the song has ended. Though the birds’ BMIs looks to have increased in the cold, their patterns remain the same as every other morning. A flurry of activity for fifteen minutes, then a disappearing act worthy of an outlaw on the run.

The unafraid fluff balls delight in having the meadow all to themselves, even if it’s covered in a blanket of snow. The bigger animals, who notably have brains larger than almonds, let the birds have it; they’re warm and safe in their holes.

As a kid, I was a fluff ball. My mother bundled me and my siblings in layers of long underwear and wool sweaters and corduroy pants, followed by hats, parkas, and gloves.

We’d step our sock feet into two plastic Wonder Bread bags, securing them with rubber bands right below the knee. We’d slide them into our boots, then head out to take on the white world. Everything was a challenge and a rapture. We’d toboggan and sled and snowball fight. We’d build igloos and snowmen. We’d push the cars of friends and neighbors out of snow drifts, loading giant bags of sand, or ourselves, into the back for traction. We’d shovel our gravel driveways and those of our neighbors, anticipating the thankless chore of picking rocks out of the grass come spring.

Back then, a snow storm meant a snow day. We prepared, of course, but I never worried. I don’t remember my parents worrying much either. Mostly I remember snow angels and numb fingers and hot chocolate and sleeping really well that night.

That was before I truly learned the toll that storms take.

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I text Richie: “How’s it looking out there, bro?”

A picture of his perfectly groomed driveway pops onto my screen — already cleared and salted.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m waiting till later,” I write. “It’s still coming down here.”

“I wouldn’t wait. The sleet is going to make the snow too heavy.”

I look out the window. Look at my wool slippers, and then the tea I haven’t yet finished. I don’t really want to leave my cozy hole… but I’m also curious which version of winter I’ll find out there: the one to hide from, or the one to delight in.

So I put my tea down and go suit up.

Thermal base layers, fleece gaiter, my favorite hat, decade-old snow pants straining at the button in a way I chose not to dwell upon. Up goes the garage door. I prime the snow blower with three pumps, pull the cord, and the beast roars to life like it’s been waiting all year for this moment, for this snow, for this day.

Its joyful confidence is contagious; I whoop and clap my gloved hands together before pushing into the snow.

Back and forth, back and forth, up and down the driveway me and Snow Wall-E march. Ice crystals rocket through the air in a plume of pure and uncomplicated delight. I accidentally nail the front door with a blast of snow and it makes me laugh. The laughing feels good, so I try singing. There’s no one there to hear my silly songs but the sparrows and cardinals, so I sing louder. I’m out here too! I’ve not stayed hidden! I’ve come out to see what the fuss was about, and they were right: it’s lovely out.

Storms have rearranged my life in ways I never thought I’d recover from. But hiding has never protected me from them. So I sing as the snow turns to sleet. As I roll the conquering snow blower back into the garage. As I scatter salt like birdseed as a finishing touch.

I peel off my sleet-laden layers, then enjoy the streaks of cold-then-hot water sliding down my back as my ice-covered ponytail melts under the shower’s blistering heat.

The next morning, the storm has passed.

A frozen world awaits as I stand at the window, tea in hand, resuming my backyard watch. Sun ricochets off the meadow. The stream has turned to milky glass. My eyes scan the unfamiliar landscape.

Then a familiar friend, the fox!

Vibrant orange coat against the snow — you couldn’t miss him, that audacity of color in all the white. He has an unhurried trot but a swiveling gaze, alert and relaxed at the same time. The first four-footed creature that I’ve seen in days.

He paces the edge of the frozen stream, looking for a way across.

No luck.

I watch him survey the banks, test the ice, circle back. He seems unbothered by the failure, or maybe just patient — modeling both acceptance and a Plan B pivot in a way I can’t relate to — willing to keep looking until the solution reveals itself.

While he looks, I wonder what brought him out here. Did his den collapse when a tree dumped all its snow? Is hunger gnawing his stomach, and he just couldn’t wait any longer? Or was it something less distressing? Was he curious about what this side of the storm was like? Did he want to know what all the singing was about?

Then he finds it: a hollow tree trunk thoughtfully draped in bleached-out meadow grasses, a cocoon insulated from the cold. He considers it for a moment. Then he disappears inside…

I watch. I wait.

And then the snow starts flying. Crystals arcing up from the trunk, a plume of white against white.

He’s making himself a den, right then and there. He’ll be just fine.

To wonder amidst the storm,

Sue

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