I had never known before the deadening qualities of snow. It seemed to kill all sound, although there had been so little before, certainly none that was man-made; but now, with the snow, it seemed that sound could not even exist, would be soaked up by the whiteness and held, so that when the snow melted in the spring it would be released in a deafening bellow, a cacophony of storage. There were no rustlings of leaves, no stream gurgling, for ice had formed over its surface, and while the water continued to flow beneath, the ice hid it from sight and sound — all the things I’d become accustomed to hearing had disappeared, vanished, as if none of them had existed.

And that, it seemed, magnified my ability to hear, so that sounds I had not noticed before became clear. The call of a cardinal rang out piercing, bell-like, alone. A squirrel pattering near the cabin was somehow audible, although surely its running footsteps must have been muffled by the snow; yet something could be heard, perhaps just its breathing.

I put out food for the winter birds and the squirrels, and whatever else that happened by hungry, and I could watch them from the windows as they sorted out their feeding among themselves. Two squirrels might sit, eager and impatient on the ground, judging the power of two brilliant cardinals, perched on the feeder eating together amicably but jealously, watchfully, and suddenly there would be some sign, not one that I could see, and at what seemed the identical moment the birds would wing off and the squirrels would leap and take their turn at the seeds. The squirrels were fat and thick and shiny-furred, healthy but greedy, eating more, almost, than they could hold, looking bursting, bullies in some ways and sounding angry, chattering ferociously at each other, nibbling swiftly, glaring at each other; occasionally one would sit back, probably needing the moment to digest but angry still, nagging at its partner as if it were unfair for one to continue eating while the other had to rest. Incredible agility those squirrels had, in all seasons, swinging and leaping to ever-decreasing branches, always stopping short of one that would not hold their weight, somehow knowing instantly which ones would support them and which would not.

Inside the cabin, noises became apparent by contrast to the silence, and were comforting. It seemed always that there was something humming: the freezer, the refrigerator, turning themselves on and off, the electric heaters. The clicks and hums were like friends; they were familiar, indicating life and warmth, giving me assurance of reality. I felt my sense of hearing keenly.

With no jobs that had to be done, I ate, slept, read, thought, cooked and baked and washed, whenever I felt like it. It was absolute, total selfishness, and never before had anything been so perfect.