There's a lane near my mother's house that only exists in winter, and only if you believe a path can be made of weather. In summer it's grass. In winter, tire tracks and boot prints press it into being, a soft blue groove running straight as a held breath between the fence lines toward the far black trees. I walked it the morning after a storm, first one out, and the snow squeaked under my boots the way it does when it's cold enough to make even footsteps sound surprised. On both sides the wire fences ran off into white, posts leaning like old men comparing aches. The sky above was washed and pale, a few clouds forgetting themselves near the top of the frame. Halfway down I stopped and turned around and saw my own line of prints trailing back, the only proof I'd ever passed through. That's the quiet deal winter offers: write briefly, read slowly, and know the page will be wiped by morning. I reached the treeline eventually and stood under it while the birds worked out whether I was safe to ignore. The lane waited behind me all the way home, patient as a pencil line.
#winterwalk #snowfield #countrylane #morninglight
