The snow is in layers and makes sound do different things. I have heard the coyotes every day. The songs are different and each voice shares space with the others and together they move like water. I decide these mountains are different in the winter because the snow reflects more than light, something happens to how you perceive distance and depth. And that perception changes as quickly as the sky.
Nothing is static here, especially at sunrise and sunset.
So much is changing, and, although it seems imperceptible, if you looked away for a moment you'd be unable to remember what you just saw and maybe you could recall the details if you closed your eyes, but you don't dare for fear of all that you might miss. So to escape the storm, we spend our day where we spent our summer. The snow is not falling here east of the Valley near Silver Gate and I marvel at the drifts that loom higher than my imagination. In snowshoes, we hike Woody Creek in the Absaroka Range and pass beneath a fir tree in which claw marks from a bear are etched high above our heads. I am surrounded by the rhythm of the woods and hope that tomorrow I will hear wolves.