We have feather snow. The eight inches that fell last night have a goose down top. The flakes lay lightly in jumbles, making fans that mimic down feathers. The spines of the flakes, lodged in icy lattices, are like the soft, plumaceous barbs of feathers.
The snow does not shovel like feathers. My back screams. Each scoop goes shortly before I need to lift and toss. My arms strain. The piles of snow are already high. New snow has fallen nearly every day for over a week. Long berms of snow line the shrubs along my drive from the daily shoveling. The snow piles grow, and the shoveling time each day grows, too.