Winslow Homer 1893

Winter sun slides beneath the treeline, crosses the final lavender mile home with strips of deep purple, pale magenta. Neither warms this sub-zero trek. Progress marked by the flash of slender ski tips through new-fallen snow, my rasping breath through a strip of wool scarf. 

Scent of musk cuts the darkness, a she-fox returning to her own warm den. Likely she welcomes the New Year with the hot spurt of an unlucky vole. My civilized stew and a sharp burgundy wait for me, for newly-kindled coals and a book by the fire.

For now, we are sisters of the snow.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2013)

Found this one in my archives, thought I’d share it here.