Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

It’s the dead of winter; George the plowman is finding creative places to put the snow he’s removed from the driveway; he waves as I watch from my window. It’s stark outside this morning.

But beautiful.

The piles of snow are mini-mountains that the squirrels will probably find challenging in their search for food. At our front door, the little red wagon and red tricycle that are surrounded by flowers in summer balance their own snow piles. The concrete column that Earl’s son-in-law “liberated” from Chicago’s Wacker Drive and presented to him one Christmas wears a topknot of the white stuff too. As do the bushes, the birdhouses, and the mailbox.

Usually I think of yard art as statues, large stones, trellises, fountains, rock gardens, goldfish ponds, and other more elaborate items that invite comments from guests. But this morning I’m revising the definition to include the beauty of a fresh snowfall.