December Hike

The day grows old. The sun slowly sinks down beneath the tops of the trees. The fog casts beams of moonlight into sepia tones. The path before my feet feels like an invitation to my soles, as if it wanted me to travel it and find out what lay upon it. I venture forth, walking in silence, the snow crunching under my feet. My footfalls become my heartbeat, and my sight becomes a sense of wakeful dreaming. The woodland has become the most beautiful of photographs. The trunks of fallen trees bare icicles almost as long as my hand, no two of them the same—more enchanting than any work of man. Every twig and blade of grass grows winter "leaves" of ice crystals, and the frost is deeper than the fleece in my gloves. I walk in silence under the light of full moon my thoughts are as full behind the snow clouds peeks the bright December moon shows its pristine face