Snowy Night: Photos taken at 11:00 PM

Years ago, as a kid, on nights like this I would dress myself from head to toe in all my warmest clothes—thermal underwear, snow-pants, puffy coat, scarf, gloves, and hat—and I’d wander out into our yard amazed by the silence.

The low clouds, gently falling snow, and the powdery fluff underfoot muffled all the usual noises.

And it was oddly warm, with no breeze stirring the air.

I would lie out on the snow and burrow myself in—sweeping snow on top of me—and I’d just listen to the stillness.

I haven’t had that feeling in years…until tonight when I turned off all the lights in the house and was surprised at the wintry glow that came from outside.

All the conditions were the same as…(thirty?) years ago when I lay in the snow—surrounded by silence—thinking my own thoughts.

Some of those memories were here in Utah and some were in New Hampshire.

I suppose that’s why, years ago, when I ran across this poem by New Hampshire’s own Robert Frost…I understood what he was saying.

You could say it struck a chord.

And although we’re a long way from New Hampshire—and there’s more sagebrush here than woods—there was something out there tonight that was the same.

Something good.

Something peaceful.

So with a nod to Frost, here's his poem:

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost, 1923