First, it softens. That which was sharp is rounded; that which is sparse is full. It is landscape's pancake makeup, its concealer, hiding blemishes, wrinkles and lines.
Next, it obscures. Mounds of white stuff pad corners so I can't see around them. Parking lot mountains loom where I least expect them. Shortcuts disappear; only the straightaways remain.
And of course, it beautifies. It does so with utmost nonchalance, but it does so just the same. The little triangle park in Lexington, a bench and a lamppost, of no particular note, becomes a still life. The snow drapes itself like an expensive fabric; it sees more in us than we see in ourselves.