It looked like the wing-wave thrown to either side
by the bow of a power boat that cuts swiftly through
quiet water. From it my eye began to slip over to the
snow expanse. The road was wide, lined with brush along
the fence to the left. The fields beyond had no very
large open areas--windbreaks had everywhere been spared
out when the primeval forest had first been broken into
by the early settlers. So whatever the force of the wind
might be, no high drift layer could form. But still the
snow drifted. There was enough coming down from above to
supply material even on such a narrow strip as a road
allowance. It was the manner of this drifting that held
my eye and my attention at last.
All this is, of course, utterly trivial. I had observed
it myself a hundred times before. I observe it again
to-day at this very writing, in the first blizzard of
the season. It always has a strange fascination for me;
but maybe I need to apologize for setting it down in
writing.
The wind would send the snowflakes at a sharp angle
downward to the older surface. There was no impact, as
there is with rain. The flakes, of course, did not rebound.
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