Perhaps it seems that this landscape hasn't changed much over the past four months since the first blanket of snow fell in November.
But no, every day is different. Every morning a new pattern of frost covers the world outside. The pathways, edged with weeks' worth of footprints, have thawed and frozen over and over again. My precarious walk down to the chicken coop is never the same. Today I step too close to the edge and have to pry my leg out of hip-deep snow.
The snow sunk in a bit around little trees and shrubs last week, during a thaw. I notice their naked trunks, stripped of bark by hungry meadow mice.
And when I pass by the few garden skeletons still standing above the snow, I am comforted by their simple frosty beauty and promise of what lies ahead.