3/2/96
A white birch in the last snowfall of the winter.
I’m walking from the barn, along the small dirt road that connects with the old gravel pit, toward my sister’s house. There is a stand of birch trees, white against the white falling snow. It is late in the winter season for a snowfall. I remember walking this little road after my father’s funeral. His dog, Ski (pedigree name; Finkleday King) walked with me. We were both lost, me missing my father, he missing his alpha leader. The birches against the white of the snow form a beautiful picture. I’m struck by the contrast of the two whites; the white of the birch bark, solid, smooth and flat; the white of the snow, uncountable flakes, each a rainbow prism, piled together to form a white, a light white composed of all the other colors.
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