Gus and Snow

I remember walking down to the lake with Gus. The snow had fallen over night and was still gently swirling in the air around us. Gus was a big dog. He stood well over six feet on his hind legs, and his belly easily cleared three feet when he was on all fours. The snow was up above his belly, and he had to plow through it. He loved it.

As we made our way toward the lake’s edge, I gazed at the snow bedecked trees, their braches overfull and sagging heavily. This morning they had been spun of fine glass and were etched into the frosted air. It was as if they existed partly in my world and partly in a world of myth or fantasy. The word had become white and ice, and it was alive with a crystalline beauty.

Nothing moved except Gus and I as we wandered through a world that had transformed into something magic and fragile. He would occasionally bounce over a drift and fling the snow playfully at me with his hind feet, but mostly we walked and stopped to take in the fleeting beauty. Catching my breath and stealing it away to dance with the frost, the wind was our constant companion. It played with my hair and whispered of mysteries just out of reach.

As we cleared the trees, we were not greeted by the familiar sight of the water. It had been covered by a vast blanket of snow. This great plain of virgin snow had stolen the lake. Nothing stirred on that plain and the wind hurtled across it and howled a lonely wail.

by Ann Galvin, IUSB