First Days of Winter

When I arrived in Florida last Monday evening, the temperature—at 9p—was 81F; when I woke up on Thursday morning, back in Parowan, the temperature was 1F.  As Wallace Stegner says, I have been consuming too much transportation.  I mean, jet lag aside, what do you call it when you get up in Florida with the air-conditioning running and go to bed—3000 miles later—with the wood stove full of pinyon?  Jet freeze?  Thermo lag?

Anyway, in addition to the cold temperatures, southern Utah received significant snowfall this past week.  It was right on time.  Friday was the first day of winter, and we have been celebrating with icy streets and 40 degree indoor temperatures.  Aside from the minor discomforts, however, the thing I have noticed the most with this storm is that the snow has acted as a sort-of passive radar—turning the invisible visible.

I know, for example, the route taken by the cat when we let her out at the front door and—later—in at the back.  I also know where the coyotes have been feeding between Paragonah and the freeway by the circle of packed snow with a bull's eye of blood.  I can see the path taken to the curb by the trash can, the place the rear wheels on the Chev lost traction, and the tracks of the silly mary-janes EDO wears to school in sub-zero temperatures.

Moreover, the snow amplifies the light of the gibbous moon, turning night to day.  When I awaken to a quiet house at 4a, the room is not dark.  If I get up and go to the front door, I can see the deer herd coming up the street, foraging in the landscaping and dodging Santa, Rudolf, Frosty, and the Wise Men in the front yards.  It is winter, I suppose, in Florida, too, but it comes without this ability to see the unseen, or to smell, as Rupert Brooke has it, "the blue bitter smoke" of the pinyon in your stove.