The snow is beautiful today – dry and glittering and quiet.
I sit beneath an old pear tree breathing in lungfuls and lungfuls of crisp air. Silence is deep and smooth – the silence of lonely forgotten places, the silence from the times when the world was still young, raw and unpolished and the woods and rivers were wild.
I cross a little stream, scurrying down the hill, bubbling the stories of wise grey men from the mountains, who know the secrets of the wind and ancient prophecies written in rock and stone.
Hanging from a branch is a metal cup filled with snow waiting patiently for summer days on which it helps to quench the thirst of parched-mouthed and weary- legged travellers.
I follow the rabbit tracks into the woods. Zig-zaging from one beech to another, making little loops and larger circles, I lose and find myself again, among the trees I know and love – the faithful guardians of everything that is old, wholesome and real.
Before entering the village I linger for a while in a sunny spot, soaking up the feeble rays of the sun, the solidity of the mountains. I let the world take care of itself.
Happy new week!