My winter thoughts are like the tundra:
Vast and reaching,
But covered in bird tracks
And traces of wings
Being swept against the new snow.
From November to March in Norway, the day seems to have no middle, only a pale dawn melting into a dazzling twilight.
You would think the colors would fade, but the deep tender sky shades the world in the softest jewel tones.
Despite the cool clutch of winter, there are still people in the woods on Sundays, breathing the scent of wet Evergreens mingled with the hot coffee in their flasks.
In the woods there are kind words for everyone, people pause, nod their heads at each other, and smile.
The day ends early during the winter months, soon towns and hamlets are left in darkness, but the stars are even more luminous in the inky sky, and in the winter stillness you can hear the sea from miles away keening capriciously like a choir of mer-people gathering to keep away the cold.
They say darkness robs the world of color, but this is not true. On a black canvas even the smallest light shines like a thousand suns, and as that dancing light brushes through the land it bleeds a generous mosaic of blues, pinks, greens and amber, creating a perpetual witching hour lasting all through winter. And what, pray tell, can be more enchanting than that?