Sunset, On Quite A Year
But the sun also rises.
The air grips the lungs from the inside, mountain-cold and surprisingly dry, despite the thick fog weaving tendrils down streets and throwing a blanket over the valley. There are snow-covered peaks in all directions, but I only know this through memory, they are lost in the darkening grey.
Sound is deadened, snow and mist absorbing, a crow call might come from any direction and none, the alarm of the blackbird echoing off unseen walls. The air itself smells of snow: dusty and ancient.
Here, a persimmon laden with bright baubles, there the yellow of a tenacious aspen leaf.