I see this meadow in the winter moonlight, and I am skiing along the tree line. Every now and again, I stop, and listen to the night. It’s an exquisite stillness, broken only by occasional sounds: a breeze shifting some branches, the hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo of a Great Horned Owl, something scurrying along in the night (maybe a porcupine?). I hear my breath, slowing.
I hope someone has really been out there, and written a poem about it.
(Believe it or not, this photograph is in color)