In my mind’s eye I see a cold dark winter morning, dark as it is too early for the sun to have woken up. The field lies before me, bleak and cold as an Arctic waste, the snow shining white into the distance until it reaches the tree line. The edges of the field blurring with the soft shimmer of the early morning mist rising from the ground. The sky is dark but not black. It is a deep grey with patches of deep blue. The occasional white fluffy cloud makes a contrast against the blue and the deep banks of grey cloud lie low and ominous on the horizon.
The trees rise into the sky, their bare branches reaching for freedom. The soft dusting of snow makes them look softer, as though they came from a Christmas card. On the evergreen trees the snow sits on the branches like an icing layer, thick and heavy, weighing the branch down almost ready to drop.
The river runs beside the path, a dark gap between banks of snow. I can hear it rippling in the crisp morning air, my breath hanging white in front of me. An occasional bird chirps, not sure that it is morning yet. I can hear the crunch of my footsteps in the snow as I walk.