“The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell color, the mountains dreaming under their woolen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest’s absence of color, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.”

“The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell color, the mountains dreaming under their woolen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest’s absence of color, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.”

— Heather Fawcett