In my early morning slumber, I hear the distant but unmistakable cacophony of a snow plow. I roll over and dismiss it from my dream. No, not yet. I was able to dismiss it since it didn’t bear down on us like the plows did on Durston Ave., scraping, banging, tearing through the pre-dawn silence. I burrow back down under the duvet and snuggle close to the woodstove-warm backside of my man, and slip into that lazy snuggle kind of sleep.
When the morning demands my attention, I come out to the front room, expectant like a child on Christmas morning, still, even after several months of living here. Our flat in this old hotel still carries a sense of novelty. I’m eager to discover what the world will display today. From five stories up, I am met with iced windows, a frosted half moon framing the rooftops of our little downtown now blanketed in a skiff of white.
I stretch awake to find a heavy fog slowly dissipating, having waved its wand across the Bridgers and Gallatin Valley leaving behind a frosted world–softer, quieter. Down on the streets, cars inch along, present renditions of ice skaters along Dutch waterways. Drivers will soon become accustomed to winter, but this morning they are still shy and overly cautious about the layer of ice beneath the snow.
A variety of greys and pinks billow up and around the cool sun, and it shines through for a moment and then is hidden again behind a backdrop of misty white and floating snowflakes dancing close to the building. Just beyond the happy-go-lucky dancers, individual flakes fly horizontally in a mini jet stream between buildings, a counterpoint to the silhouette of my unruly hair reflecting back in the glass.
Now that the leaves have fallen from the trees lining Main Street, I can step close to the living room window and crane my neck at a sharp angle to read the thermometer several blocks away at the First Security Bank. If I squint just so, I can make a good contextual guess. Either that’s a one or a four, a six or a zero; close enough usually to know how to dress before going out. This morning, however, there is no guessing; I cannot see the red digital signs through the swirl of snow.
James gets up too, pulls on a long sleeved shirt and pulls down the storm windows, another layer of hush to the beginning bustle below. Last night we walked in a balmy 63 degrees to the old downtown First Baptist Church for Jamie and Stephen’s wedding, then crossed the street to the Emerson Ballroom. After feasting and dancing in celebration, we hurried home around the block. It had begun to sprinkle and we laughed and ducked into the red bricked entrance of Chalet Sports until the street light changed so we could cross to the brightly lit and bustling Baxter–this old beauty so busy and welcoming. We were full of joy in the late night, walking arm-in-arm, sheltering one another from warm rain and suspended disbelief that the forecasted coldfront would ride in on the night, shoving our balmy air far to the south and east, leaving us with this frozen 10 degrees. Tomorrow and Wednesday’s highs are predicted to be 7 degrees with a low of -4, -2. (-20 today in Butte).
Winter is here.