The Mystical Night With Nebulous Stars

February's air is not really that frigid, I stay warm in my fleece jacket and insulated brown boots; I'm also wearing a wool hat I bought a month ago in Lake Placid, its color is green and smells of spruces. I have walked past pine groves without the glowing eyes of owls, a light breeze brushes them against the mystical night with nebulous stars; their branches are stiff and would be broken if the wintry wind, taking a snooze, swept them hard when nobody is woken. Nostalgic thoughts make the cold blood warm, their images appear amid silver shadows reflecting a moonlight unsteady and vague; unafraid as always, I go past them not fearing ghosts or howling wolves, and even less the ravaging snowstorm about to approach soon. I'm thinking of Prague where the temperature is much colder and walking through the cobblestone streets, one sees the magical Christmas unfold... snow on red rooftops and Marionette Puppets.