Our Lady of the snows
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow -
When I went to the cemetary to get these shots it was still snowing and most of the little roads were plowed. However- I somehow managed to get myself stuck in a snow pile. Thank goodness there were people still working on plowing. I got out- but was a bit embarrassed by the whole ordeal