Cold, Still, and Watching
It’s late, and the hill of three oaks is empty of everything except the cold. The moon is full, the snow is packed and quiet underfoot, and the wind finds its way through a heavy coat without much trouble. At these temperatures, the world narrows quickly: the heat burning in the extremities, the taste of blood from chapped lips, the slow numbness that creeps across the face. There is no thought of anything else.
The scene itself is its own kind of reward. The white field takes on a blue cast under the moon and stars, and the trees stand black against the sky, unchanged season after season. Looking up, the sheer number of stars is overwhelming—ten million of them, distinct and unblinking.
Lying down in the snow, it's easy to just wait, to let the minutes pass, and to feel less like an observer and more like part of the terrain.
