The dogs go in and out and play and come in wet and happy and flop down in great panting dog piles on the day bed. Greg, the South African, handles it all in his stride. He takes his attitude from his cocker girls and they have had snow before. "If the girls aren't scared why should I be; besides it is fun?"

I know across my valley our new home is being covered by the same gently falling snow. It's weather battered aged exterior glowing with renewed hope.

While my window faces East, our new home, "WHITE HAWK FARM," faces West. A low ridge prevents me from seeing it from this very window. I had wanted to call it "WINTER HAWK FARM," after an all white hawk that came there one day as I was putting in the offer. It was like an omen and a blessing. "Buy this place. Maybe you cannot buy happiness nor perfection but you can buy peace and beauty. I hunt here in peace and trust."

I made a covenant with him that day. He can always hunt there in peace. I told Alan of the Hawk and my desire to call the place Winter Hawk. "No," he said. "it sounds unwelcoming. Do you mind if we call it White Hawk?" Hence our farm was named and a new life promised.

I remembered once when I was leaving England I asked the Powers That Be if I would ever return, if I would ever have a life with Alan? I watched the bird bath and the feeder all day. I had asked that if there was to be a future with my Englishman that I be sent a rare bird. I asked for one that would come to our yard and the feeder that day.

Maybe in my mind I expected something of rare and bright plumage, something so beautiful that it would be that one sure sign I needed. While I watched, a plain brown bird of blackbird size and sporting a buff coloured head came and bathed and played in the bath. He looked too ordinary to be a sign, he looked common and dull. But return he did all day; but my bright bird never did arrive.

Nearly all day I watched this plain bird come and go from the yard. When Alan returned from work it was late and my harbinger bird had not arrived. Disappointed and dejected I continued my stay and prepared for the impending return to Canada. I did try to track the bird down and explained him to Alan. "He was plain and buff-headed and the size of a blackbird." Alan had denied knowledge of such a British bird and together we went through the books of Ornithology. Nothing, nothing close. "He was just plain brown," I would say. I let go of the bird and the desired life and came home to Canada praying for some miracle.

It was later that I discovered through a letter from Alan, that the bird, spotted on another occasion, was a black bird of rare mutation. He was a plain brown bird. I had asked for my sign and had received it but I had missed the message because the bird had not met my expectations of rare.

When a few weeks ago I walked the farm property alone, Alan such a part of my life, I knew the Hawk brought promise. We do not have white hawks here, he belonged in the High Arctic. I wasn't going to lose this opportunity to recognise a significant sign. I went back to town and wrote the offer.

Today as I watch across the valley through a white world I wonder about the white Hawk and I hope he has found his path home. I send blessings to him for showing me my home. He showed me a home and a life Alan and I will share.