When your first thought upon waking is, ?where did I put my snowshoes??? you know you are in for a lower-body-workout kind of day.

?I dreamed of snow,? I say to T as I roll over in bed.

?Look out the window,? he replies.

I?m thinking his first thoughts of the day might go something like: Driveway. Plow. Sigh.

When I step out onto the porch, snow is still coming down hard. The twirling flakes are large and thick. I wish I could capture the poetry of their movement in a photograph, but the task is beyond me. I shoo the dogs away from my feet as they growl and wrestle in anticipation of their walk. I'm not sure I understand how they think knocking into my ankles advances their cause, but, you know, whatever. I strap on the snowshoes, settle my hands into the grip of the ski poles and off we go into the soft, downy downpour of white.

As if a green flag was suddenly waved, the dogs careen wildly down the driveway. They have so much octane to burn that they leap over one another, circle through the belly deep snow and then race back to me again and again until we reach the top of the field where I begin my slow descent through the drifts. No measured pace for them. They take off in wide, looping circles chasing each other or, in the case of Henry, just tearing across the field as fast as he can go only to stop on a dime, turn and blast off in the other direction. Ah, Henry, my own little Olympic sprinter preparing for the trial runs in Beijing.

We reach the road and I decide to walk on the berm between the tire tracks left by T this morning. It would be easier to walk in the flattened snow, but the tracks are too narrow for the snowshoes.

Branches bend into the road. I reach up with a pole and knock off some of the snow which catapaults them back into place. They thank me with a torrent of white that cascades down on my head, but I don?t care. By this time, my gloves are off, my hood is down and my hair is already wet. The impromptu snow shower actually feels good.

When we get to the end of the road, the dogs are no longer running through the forest on either side of me, but plodding along a few feet in front. They are tired. Daisy, in particular, runs ahead every once in a while so that she can lie down and rest. She has it the toughest as she is the smallest and because today?s snow is the kind for making snowmen. It is thick and sticky. Unlike the butterscotch boys, Daisy?s coat has long swathes of fur. Halfway through our walk, her hind legs are a cluster of snowballs ranging in size from a big gumball to a tennis ball. They swing like pompoms edging the brim of a hat as she jogs along. We stop and I try to help. The balls won?t break off. They have the sticking power of cold saltwater taffy. All I can do is squish them between my palms and try to melt them, but I don?t make much progress before my hands freeze up, so on we go. I know they?ll melt off once she?s snuggled in front of the woodstove.

And that?s where we are as I type to you. The woodstove is pumping out the sweet warmth that softens my bones to the marrow. I watch out the window as the morning doves swoop down from the hemlock to swarm the feeders, which sends the chickadees and red poles running for cover. There are dozens of doves and sometimes, like this morning, their large, rounded bellies and smooth heads make me think of pigeons. Are they cousins? I have no idea.

All I know is that my dogs are out cold?splayed across the floor at my feet in varying postures of repose. There is not so much as a tail twitch or eyelid flutter. They are sound asleep.

That means I can now slip upstairs and settle in to the work of the day although, honestly? Would be nice to curl up on one of those dog beds and slumber through this snowy morning. Maybe in my next life . . .

P.S.: Both photos were taken this morning and no, they are not black and white. That's color, such as it is, here today.

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