And so it begins again, as it has so many times before.
I wake long before light to heavy silence. You can feel it. A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive. I know.
I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.
The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light. The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.
This is the time the land shines and shivers. It is her time. When she is allowed to be solitary. Nothing to give or take. Demands washed over in white. Pure and pristine in stillness and strength. If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.
She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique. I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow. I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.