Snowfields

Snow has turned the fields outside Moscow into wilderness.  It makes this place treacherously beautiful.  When I was sledding, snow streaked across the old farmer's hill we were on; everything glowed orange in the falling white.  Trees in the distance stood fuzzy, like an old photograph--and just as quiet.  It felt as if we had been displaced: like we, laughing in our wool hats and wet gloves and ears full of snow, were the only creatures alive in a land of whiteness.  

It was magic, being alive just then.