Snow began falling before day break, the sky and earth merging in a haze of soft white. I sat at the dining room table writing and gazed out the window.

The previous night, I worked hard and long, moving the compost pile before the storm, knowing that the area might get too wet and muddy to work after the snow had fallen. We plan to build a hoop house this weekend and put it where the compost pile had been. My friends just built one according to plans in Elliott Coleman’s Four Season Harvest. The unheated greenhouse will let us grow more plants in cold weather.

As I gazed at the snowy scene, I remembered a scene from years ago. I had been looking out the front window at my home in Elkridge. My son had the flu. I was feeling homebound, stretched and stressed as heavy snow fell. No one stirred outside. Then a UPS truck drove to my house and the driver brought a box to my front door. My college roommate had filled the box with games her sons had outgrown and sent them to me. That unexpected kindness warmed me in the midst of a hard winter.  

“That reminds me of my mom,” says my friend, Janet. “She had a rainy day bag that she filled with new toys. On rainy days, we each got to reach into the bag and pick a toy without looking. They were simple--a pair of jacks--nothing special--but they were new. Maybe that is why we all like rainy days.”

Rainy days, snowy days: days when we can notice the small details and follow their trails.  A red fox, tail outstretched, picks his way across the hay field, then disappears. Where did he go? Alpha, my big male cat, comes tripping down the farm lane on his way home from his morning outing. Where had he been? Had he walked to the farmhouse as we suspected?

I follow his trail as I head to my morning chores. His prints lead to the top of the pond, circle the hen house and then disappear into the barn. I slip and fall on a patch of ice, hidden by the new snow.  I pass it every morning, but this morning I did not notice it.

In the hen house, one rooster is tinged red, bloodied from a fight with another rooster. Three days ago, I found two young gobblers beating each other with their wings, grabbing each other with their beaks. They fought hard.Spring is coming; their blood is rising. I carry a rake with me and position it outside the door, ready for my next visit.
 
My older friends notice birds and buds on trees. They sift through papers and photographs, remember times gone by, and ponder invisible connections, subtle patterns, unforeseen consequences, the trail that we leave behind….