Raz and I went for a long, bush-whacking hike through the woods south of our house on Sunday. One of those, "Let's see what we find going this way." kind of hikes without any destination other than "outside." For all of his tip-toeing and clumsiness when he's taken out to go to the bathroom at home, Raz magically transforms into a sleek snow machine when it comes time for a hike, bounding over logs and through snow drifts like a deer.

There's a little under a foot of snow on the ground, which has totally transformed the woods. Where once there were downed branches, rocks and wetlands you now find an almost smooth landscape. It may be just as tricky to hike, but you get the impression that it shouldn't be and therefore trudge on. Looking closer at the folds of snow you'll find small openings ringed in ice crystals. Air holes. Perhaps it's a small animal home and there's a pair of eyes peeking nervously back at you. Or it could be the venting from the last steamy exhalations of a soon to be frozen water flow below. Everywhere there are signs of water in retreat; convoluted and layered sculptures of ice left behind when rivulets stopped flowing or puddles sunk into the ground.

The snow also serves to reveal our heretofore hidden neighbors. Deer, turkey, rabbit and other prints dot the land as if they've just moved in and set up a major commuting lane behind our back. Scat dots the snow as do smooth bowl-like depressions where deer bed for the night. Tiny tracks radiate in arterial patterns from small holes in the snow. And yet, except for the creak of wind blown trees, it is perfectly still. One wonders if all of nature bides its time behind rocks and under snow drifts, patiently waiting for us to pass out of range so that life can resume.