Snow, finally. It arrives on the night wind. News travels by phone before the blinds are lifted. Mere handfuls here, thickens cover towards the town. Not cold enough to keep for long so we leap to the fields, grabbing urgent gloves on the way.
Boots stall in the white impediment. Everywhere you look there is a picture.
Over there, iced moor hills: where the creatures that can live and die and never be known are free, making unseen tracks. I have thought of them, today: how I think of them: longingly, with envy, as things utterly connected, self-contained, without need of ego or any way to measure time.
Little Granddaughter has soon had enough of falling in this crunchy water: holds mittened hands up: a vote to spectate.
We are still lost in the novelty of contact.
If it doesn't last, it must be precious.
No-one needs to know we are here: the joy of life is in the moment, not the record. Tracks follow us back to the car.