I am walking through the woods of Alaska in my wonderful, new, black boots. Black and white are the shades of winter; with an artist's gift of blue. The jagged mountains rise high above the treetops and tower in the shadows and light.
As I walk along, I hear the soft, padded pillows of powdery, white cold crunch beneath my boots; and the distant hissing of tires gliding through the slush. Overhead now, the hum of an airplane faithfully carrying its passengers.
I hear the wind whistle and realize that I am alone. A cold winter breeze rushes by, numbing my cheeks. It is the season of death and death is what I see. The branches snapping and lying covered in snow. The bloody, crimson red is shining through the birch tree. The presence of a black bird looms in a branch above me.
But what is this?...the smell of pine. And I begin to see the evergreen struggling through the snow. "Life," I think to myself and look more carefully now. The bright, soothing Alaskan sun breaks through and begins to warm my reddened, wind-bitten cheeks. I see in the snow, little paw prints of hiding creatures and hear a distant chirping of birds.
Yes, I know now. It is not a season of death, but sleep. Soon the world will wake, and I will be here to greet it.
