Take a walk in winter. Bundle up and keep moving. Your body generates enough heat to be out there for a little while. It is worth any minor discomfort. Feel the sting of the frigid air in your nostrils, upon your lips and into your lungs. Here, away from sirens and helicopters, incessant commercials, the constant hustle. Always have to be "on". Because people suck. Well, not completely, but they can. And they often do. The forest is exquisite in winter. Beneath the canopy, insulated with heavy, wet snow it forms it's own atmosphere. The air is thin and crisp, while at the same time like a blanket laid gently across the earth as she sleeps. You can find this place, where the path is silent, yet every sound is far reaching and forever. The smell is clean, sharp yet still subtle like wet linens hung on a clothesline on a spring day. Cloudy days in the winter forest are like walking within a set from a Fritz Lang film. Captured within a fog, a negative of sepia tone with gauze fuzzing the edge of the lens. Or those bitter cold days when the low winter sun brings us bright light, but can not stave off the arctic mass. Feel the crunch of the snow beneath your boots, a biting wind upon your cheeks. Your eyes tear and through frozen sheen the shafts of light dance through the boughs of the trees, a kaleidoscope in white and grey and silver.
