One night we emerged from the house next door to find the world laden with snow. Burdened saplings loomed toward us in the beam of our flashlight.

When snow plasters all the branches, it creates a fairy-tale landscape. Though this tale has moved to Russia from the knobby “German” forest of late fall. The woods bristle with texture and close in around the walker. Without snow, the bare gray trees give the impression of an arid land, which is somewhat appropriate because so much water is bound up in snow and ice.

The cloud-like surface of the snow is illusory, accessible only with snowshoes. In boots the deception crumbles step by step, and mounds may be revealed as deep drifts. The plastered branches provide no dry perch for singing finches or chickadees. Fortunately they regulate their legs and feet just above freezing. My body has some designs in that direction – I’m often accused of having cold hands and feet – but it’s not enough to let me go barefoot in the snow.