At such times, locked away inside wall and woolen, lulled by the sedatives of wood-smoke and candlelight, we recall the competing claims of nature. We see the branch and bark of trees, rather than the sugar-scented green of their leaves. We look out the window and admire the elegance of ice crystal, the bravely patient tree leaning leafless into the wind, the dramatic shadows of the stooping sun. We look at the structure of things, the geometry of branch and snowflake, family and deed.Even before the first snow, we view the world differently in winter. We watch the lawn settle into the sleep of frost and the last crumpled leaf quiver on the oak, and feel the change. At night the skies are cold and clear, and stars shine like the dreams of serpents. The hillsides turn brown and gray; the edges of stalk and blade stand out starkly. Dark clouds settle on the mountain ridges. Storms rumble in like freight trains. Rain rattles the roof and thutters at the window.