The northern cold and snow arrived late this year.
Huddled against the wind we walk icy paths to the hilltop.
A clear view of the cloud-skewed sky.
Pockets of white, grey, and rare blue.
Various footprints scattered from trees to grasses.
We stop briefly to admire the apparent stillness when only the wind is heard, when only the wind is moving, and everything else nestles into warm pockets of earth, or nests high in the trees.
When our feet began feel the cold, we continue down the other side of the hill, back onto the icy path, and head home to our own nests.
