FEATHERBED

Snowflakes twirled like confetti and covered the ground with a featherbed this weekend. It was a winter wonderland.

I grabbed my camera and headed outside excited as a child to take photographs. No cars roaring on Swaims Road to break the serenity. I felt alone, but soon discovered others had invaded my corner of the world.

A hound dog charged out of the woods and cut across my front yard. I called him to take his photo, but the dog had more important things on his mind. He was trailing a squirrel and disappeared with a howl into the pine thickets.

Just when tranquility returned, a flock of blackbirds landed in the poplar trees. Their feathers flicked snow off the limbs. Raucous twittering echoed across the Brasstown Valley.

Smoke from my neighbor’s chimney swirled like India ink to the sky. I continued to take photographs until the sun broke through the clouds. A painting was unveiled—magnificent snow-capped mountains reflecting like a mirror in Lake Chatuge.

As the day waned, the mountains transformed from pearl gray, pale blue, sapphire, to plum. The strawberry blush of dusk faced the stars, and a crescent moon glowed like a slice of muskmelon on the lace-trimmed earth.

This morning a crow’s loud cawing awoke me. I peeked out the window and gasped at the awesome sunrise bleeding across the Blue Ridge Mountains. I took a photograph before the beauty faded and faced another day. Maybe I’ll jump on the featherbed of snow in my front yard today or make some snow cream. The possibilities for adventure beckon me.