White magic

Today it snowed in drizzly gusts that shook the trees and whipped up the world in a chaos of white. It was goregous and I went out mid-afternoon to explore the forest trails cloaked in this new vodoo, this white magic.

Click-click-click! screamed a kingfisher whipping up and down the creek bottom proclaiming his rights in the gusts of the storm. Pausing on a small limb over the still cold pools he looked me dead in the eye only a few yards away, before casting his crown in restless agutation to disappear in a cacophony of clatter.

Along the trails the snow blew like big fat drops of rain in my face. Orange beech leaves, the vestiges of another season creaked forlornly in the gusts, and small ripples were driven over the smooth water. Along the banks fresh deer prints give clues to the herd's nervous movements this time of year, and in the brush song birds tumble and forage in a world of white.