Speyside Dawn

It's soundless but for my boots crunching snow. The trees are furred with frost, the dark extremities of birch white, looking like the ghosts of trees, like a photographic negative. The fog has closed in but the hint of sunrise I saw earlier, that hint of an extraordinary day about to begin, appears in a hole in the fog, a rosy mountain peak plastered in snow.

The forest I am wandering in smells