Wednesday, July 9, 2008
In the dead of winter, I step through the newly fallen snow that will soon crust over like the snow that fell before. I follow the trail of the frozen river through a path of dense pines as they endure the bitter winter snow. The individual needles are turned white by frost while snow covers several branches. A small part of the river's surface dissolves from the heat of my touch, but the ice is otherwise dense. Soon the river ends, and I come upon two slopes. As I climb them, the icy wind whips my face and I smell the fresh scent of cool, fresh air. My taste buds tingle as I open my mouth and let snowflakes fall onto my tongue. The wind's low howl whispers through the trees as I climb the last slope. My ears are frostbitten from the intense cold, but they still hear the hushed murmur of the icy gust through the forest of tress and up the towering mountains above. I look up and see the mountains held in such high esteem. The clouds that lay above are a soft purple, reflecting peace within the peaks, and within the sky.