It snowed a good windless snow late Thursday night and into Friday morning. The air was calm and quiet enough that the snow was able to pile up on each and every naked tree branch, the top of the fence that divides The Run from the golf course, and even on those narrow brick nooks along the edges of the building. We awoke to a marvelously white new world that felt as though our old one had been both intensified and erased. The brittle grass and rough bark of the trees had been replaced with smooth, clean lines that moved elegantly against the clear sky.
By the time we ventured out the storm had long since passed and the sky was an incredible bright blue and the ground was gold in those few spots the rising sun could reach. Already the air had warmed enough that the snow high in the trees, balancing on the power lines and along the edges of the roofs was beginning to slip from its precarious perches to fall in thick clumps that wafted out and sprinkled down on us in a dazzling glittering shower as we passed beneath. Duncan turned his face into it, snapped it up and licked it off his muzzle but did not question it. I knew that it was supposed to be in the high 60's by the afternoon and that it would soon be gone, but Dunc did not care where it came from or how long it would last, only that it was there, fresh and clean and perfect for putting his footprint into and kicking up in thick clouds behind him, gossamer-like and airy enough to slide down the hillside in The Glen without it matting the blond fur on his belly.
What a difference a day can make. But that's Spring on the edge of The Rockies. Duncan takes nothing for granted and lives each moment to it's fullest, dragging me along behind him, be it through thick, new snow or the mud the day after. His joy is not dependent on the weather.