The first snowdrift of winter

The first snow came in the night. By morning the forest path was so quiet that every step carried far, and the air already felt like winter, though the frost was only a couple of degrees.

I walked the familiar loop around the lake. The ice near the shore was still thin and showed black, and the pines carried heavy loads of snow. I had hot lingonberry juice in a flask and sat on a stump for a while, just listening.

The start of winter is the best of the seasons: everything slows down, and even small things are noticed.

Snow changes the sounds of a landscape. No more rustling leaves, only your own breathing and a distant crow. It felt as if the forest had pulled a blanket over itself and fallen asleep.

Tomorrow I'll try the skis. The tracks aren't open yet, but on a thin crust you can already ski along the edge of a field.