In winter, the forest floor disappears.
An individual leaf, twig, or pinecone often goes unnoticed in the forest floor leaf litter. But when snow blankets the ground, an oak leaf, a spray of pine needles, and a pinecone suddenly become easy to notice.
Today’s finds along the snowshoe trail included a fresh pine needle twig, scattered oak and beech leaves, and a single cone sitting just atop the crusty snow.
During most of the year, the forest floor in New Hampshire’s mixed hardwood forests is a complex system where nutrients and energy are constantly recycled. Leaves decompose beneath fresh ones, pine needles accumulate in quiet drifts, and twigs settle, soften, and gradually return to soil. This process does not stop during winter. A good blanket of snow acts as a thermoregulator, mediating temperature fluctuations and allowing fungi and microorganisms to continue their work — though at a slower pace.
From both an ecological and observational standpoint, winter simplifies what is otherwise visually complex.
By removing the visual noise of leaf litter, snow creates a simplified surface where what falls becomes visible. Snow doesn’t add information to the landscape. It edits it, bringing forward what we couldn’t see before — the single leaf or twig, as well as evidence of animal movement. For a few months each year, the ground becomes a blank page, and what lands there can be read.
How Winter Shapes My Work
Many of my winter pieces are shaped by this same restraint. I’m often drawn to the subtle traces — the small indicators of presence and passage that become visible when snow quiets the landscape. The quieter the ground plane becomes, the more these small moments hold.