After all the weeks of other people's snow, we have our own... during the night the transformation that returns us [all?] to a childhood delight, happened here.
Gone are the ice-filled puddles where the tractor enters the field, gone the crimped ridges of frozen mud along the road-edge - everything is smooth and newly white.
Too late to have misgivings about plants in the garden (could I have wrapped them better against the cold) they are out of sight - small lumps in a mystery of shapes.
Looking at the sky, full of light and distant dove-grey, it isn't hard to believe this fine rattle of snowflakes will not persist - but immediately a fountain of snow rushes past the window in a draft...
The gritter - not being in such demand here as in snowier counties - has cleared selectively, and there's a chance of reaching the next village for bread and milk (which were sold out yesterday).
The small black dog thinks less well of this novelty: we huddle briefly into the cold wind, but no interesting smells persist in such cold.
...and no birds sing.