Despite the fact that winter can be a difficult time of year in Maine, I always love watching snow fall. There is so much going on, yet it is all happening so quietly. The only time it makes any sound at all is if the snow is falling on dried oak leaves still clinging to their branches. Even then, the sound can be hardly described as deafening, unless the snow is making a transition to sleet or freezing rain, at which time it closely mimics the sound of popping corn.

The ground is cold enough now so that any light snow would quickly begin to accumulate. Each delicate though extremely complex flake would touch down either on bare ground or on others where their individual crystals would quickly join forces with others, resulting eventually in a thick coating. As dense as snow appears to be at first glance, there is actually plenty of space between the crystals, depending upon their individual composition. There are dozens of possible configurations and as many types of snow crystals, and each is dependent on the temperature and humidity levels in place at the time of its formation.

Despite a weather report that stated that no snow would be seen in this area, I awakened on a recent morning to snow on the ground. A light coating had formed on grass and ground, and the porch was slippery with it when I went outside to hang the bird feeder up. The chickadees and nuthatches appear at first light, whether the feeder is there or not, reminding me that it’s time for breakfast. As I stepped outside, I noticed again what a silencing effect snow has on the landscape. Even before I’ve looked outside some winter mornings, I can often tell if it has snowed or not just by the sound. Snow imparts a softness to all that it touches, including noise. Even distant sounds seem to intrude more softly, and the air doesn’t reverberate with its usual low hum when displaced by the slowly falling flakes.

This wasn’t the type of snow that necessitated removal. It was merely a harbinger of what is to come, though late is its arrival this year. Once it stopped snowing, the air had a smoky quality to it, a cold stillness that perfectly illustrated the season. Tree trunks were more gray, and the distant trees stood as though in a mist.

Later that day, I walked out to the shed and surveyed the chilled landscape. Only a few small birds milled about among the leafless trees, and dry oak leaves rustled in the wind overhead. Not far away, two squirrels chased each other up and down trees, leaping from one to the other with ease and precision. And above me, the sky hung low, gray and somber, revealing yet another aspect of nature’s personality that so often reflects my own current mood, one that was not helped that day by the sight of bright red surveyor’s marks affixed or painted onto the trees along the edge of this land. Fluorescent orange is not on nature’s palette, hence its use to protect us in the woods during hunting season. Nor does it enhance the scenery, and I had to quickly distance myself from it and from the implication that our woodlands mean different things to different people.

As long as I’ve been here, boundaries or property lines have mattered little to me. In the legal world, they delineate chunks of land and confirm just who owns what and where. Horror stories abound among property owners regarding disputes between those who bicker about what’s acceptable and what’s not as far as allowing others to use land that simply sits there undeveloped. Then, when things get sticky, enter the surveyors with their tape and paint, marking trees and stone walls and generally defacing the landscape. Perhaps this is an extreme view, but then again, I have an extremely unreasonable passion for the woods and wild places. An empty beer can or Styrofoam coffee cup poking through last year’s leaves is enough to drive me to distraction, and I have to either do something about it or pretend I didn’t see it if it’s in a spot I can’t easily get at.

I must keep reminding myself that I am not totally alone here, and that others nearby have their own agendas and ideas. That’s not always easy to do particularly when a snowfall dulls sound to the point where I actually do feel totally alone or when the white winter landscape distracts me from a reality that lies just down the road a piece. Therein lies the beauty of such places as this. Reality is nearby if we want it. And if not, it’s merely a question of turning our gaze away from it and toward that seemingly infinite point among the trees that I pray remains unsullied for many years to come.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.