Icicles on the porch.
We drive home in the dark.
The outskirts of town fade quickly; the oncoming flow of blinding white lights was short lived and is gone. We leave the high beams on, ready at each turn to flick them lower if need be. Few vehicles come, and none follow us further up the mountain. Now we pass but the occasional home, most closed for the season, an invisible part of the dark landscape surrounding us. Those with lights have the tell tale blue glow of a TV screen. I know there people in there, sitting and watching some story from far away, perched before their modern evening altar.
My husband deftly maneuvers the truck, a controlled swerve around a stunned deer in the headlights. Suddenly in the bright beam and limited view, she dances confused before us, and is spared. The heavy grill on the front of our truck was left untouched. This time.
Here we drive expecting wildlife. It comes as no surprise that we are tested of our awareness and must dodge them. More often than not, it is the animal that does not expect us. We are in their path, in their way, on their mountain. It was an elk that ran into the side of the truck two years ago. We replaced the truck bed with a flat bad. Perhaps the next time, one will just slide right over and off. At the very least, vehicle damage would be minimized. A practical choice.
We have even been hit by moose, with surprisingly minimal injury to both vehicle and the big black beast.
The smooth, monotonous drone of the paved road is abruptly replaced with the rattle of gravel beneath the wheels as we turn onto our road, our speed reduced further still. These are a slow 18 miles.
Around the next bend in this winding road something big and wide lifts and lights from a rock by the side of the road. Illuminated by headlights, the owl soars before us, low and level above the road and vanishes again into the darkness. I can only imagine his silence.
And as he vanishes, spots of white appear, as if they were heading straight for the truck then veer off at the last minute. Just one, then two, then more; we notice them all, and our anticipation builds. The owl has called forth the snow. Again.
Around another corner and the white specks in the air increase in number, coming at us like so many moths to the light. We are in a tunnel it seems, with the headlights illuminating the cliff to our right and the sheer blackness of nothingness that is the steep drop off to our left.
We arrive home to hungry horses and a house in need of a warming fire. As I read in bed, tucked way down under the blankets to try to find warmth, keeping one hand out at a time to hold my book, I hear Forrest opening the door, stepping out, checking on the progress of the falling flurry.
And we sleep to dreams of snow.