We had a little bit of snowfall here last night. When I woke up this morning, it was still coming down.
Fortunately, the snow is a light, dry, icy blow. So the wind is whipping it off the roof about as fast as it falls. This is good for the chickens - the wet, heavy flakes when they fall cling to everything and tug the netting over their run down, trapping them. It's also a lot easier to shovel this stuff so you can get out of the door after it accumulates.
That's about two feet that's fallen (with a perfect reverse impression of our front door). In the drifts, it's 3 feet or more. The dog took one look at it this morning and decided she could hold her business until I shoveled a path for her.
She's a pure bred St. Bernard. Mixed with a hefty dose of chicken.
My truck lives outside since I bought the new Mini Cooper. It is weathering the storm with a quiet, affronted dignity. But it's a farmer's truck. It is stoic.
The wind is still whipping the snow into icy twisters. But the house is nearing 300 years old. It has seen worse. And is remarkably cozy.
Which is good. Because we're not going anywhere for a while.
I've got wood enough to last, and no reason to venture out.