First Snow on the Ridges

The drive home ran along the exact line where the seasons were exchanging custody: ochre and rust on the low hills, fresh white on the wooded crests, a grey sky supervising the handover. I stopped where the gravel widened, poured tea from the thermos, and stood at the edge of the road steaming like a small local industry.

Nothing happened, which was the event. No cars, no herds, one raven auditing the valley. The first snow redraws distances; ridges you have driven past all year suddenly step forward and identify themselves. I stood there until the cup went cold, doing the kind of looking that fills no notebook and settles everything.

By dark I was home, boots by the door, maps back in their drawer. The mountains will close for the season now. So, in the good sense, will I. Winter is for the desk, and the desk has a list.