February Light

An exhilaration comes upon you in the midst of that sparkling brilliance. You're out cleaning up the driveway in the crisp morning air, no wind, temperature near zero. It's not that you're looking at something beautiful. Rather, you're breathing something so open, bright, and full of energy that  nothing could be better. It glows in the chalky white snow, it cries out in a sky so intensely blue you can feel it in your throat.

The energy from that same February light lies behind the icicles hanging from the eaves, which weren't there a week ago. They're quaint, like a Christmas card, but without the moody darkness. And they provide you with an excuse to linger in the morning air. You grab the bamboo snow rake from the garage and get started on the heaps of pristine snow that have risen above the gutters these last few weeks.

But that's not quite enough of a good time, so you decide to cut back the highbush cranberry and the green twig dogwood before the new buds start forming. Something you forgot to do last year—until it was too late! Then it's around to the back, where the icicles outside the bedroom window are impressive indeed.

Ah, the joy of a good dump of snow down your neck as you maneuver that ten-foot snow rake from high up on the ladder while battling the branches of the pagoda dogwood that overhang the roof!

February light doesn't hold the promise of spring. It's an intrinsic good, it's free, and it's all the more pleasant and surprising for the fact that, unlike a comet or the Northern Lights, it spreads itself everywhere without undue commotion.

We drove north with some friends the other day to the rocky hills, snow-covered lakes, and black spruce forests of the border country. We skied across Everett Lake and later hiked through the woods to Kawishiwi Falls. The snow was new, the air was fresh and calm, the sun was brilliant. 

No, the sun was new, the snow was fresh and calm, the air was brilliant.