Just twenty-four hours after the equinox, I found myself stepping back outside with the camera for round two. Fresh snow had settled overnight, coating the hemlocks, dusting the intricate web of bare deciduous branches, and piling a clean white cap atop the carriage house cupola. While true spring warmth is right around the corner—and these late flurries will soon dissolve into memory—there is a quiet grace to these parting storms that is easy to miss once the heat sets in.
Still, not everyone on the property shared my appreciation for the extended forecast. Hanging from a bare limb out back, the blue tin owl birdhouse took the brunt of the squall, sporting heavy snowbanks over its eyelids that gave it an unmistakably unimpressed glare. As the saying goes: what does the owl say? Out here today, it says winter has overstayed its welcome.
