As it breaches the horizon, the sun spreads a palette of soft pinks and violets across the scudding clouds. The silhouette of a sturdy fir tree pierces the sky. The snow is flushed with a sheen of pink. Its mantle is broken only by the trudging of boots. Hills frosted with snow recede into the distance, toward the sun. Rolling mountains to the south stretch their snowy arms upward. All is quiet. The songbirds do not sing this early in the cold. They snuggle in the warmth and coziness of nests. The crispness of winter is manifest. Its icy scent permeates the air. Frost encrusts the fence that cuts through the field and the bare branches of the trees. Stray snowflakes meander along with the faintness of a breeze, which sways like a boat at harbor. Spindly icicles adorn the trees and have not yet had a chance to melt. This is idyll. The silence, stillness, and colors of a wintry dawn are as welcome now as the sprouts of grass are in spring.
