Driving alone in the Monts de Blond

I drive alone down misty roads where the morning’s frost still lingers on the earth, grass, leaves unreached by the feeble winter sun whose fingers slowly withdraw into the white blankness of unmoving air. The road bends as it climbs between the shadowed pines and leaping across the road two roe deer, almost always two, run from the shrouded trees slowing my progress as I scan for more to disappear again in depths of forest. Higher the road climbs these mystic hills higher still until the sky appears that clear blue dry-air winter sky full of all light but bereft of warmth. I think of home, as I clear the misty hills, mystic still but now illuminated by the light of memory, of love departed, thoughts of you beside me almost always you beside me. As I drive alone out of the higher ground the frost still lingers but the feeble sun has banished the obscuring mists full of all light but now bereft of warmth.