It’s freezing out. My breath huffs in the silence, turning into billowing clouds in the moisture-rich air. The cold pricks my exposed skin, and I dig my hands deeper into my pockets, a moment of regret for my lack of scarf to wrap around my face.

I move out of the back yard, towards the pasture, following the car track between the fences. The ground is bleached imperfectly with frost, ice coating weeds that stick out of the ground. My footsteps crush the indelicate shoots with every step, vegetation bending inside the rigid ice. It makes a softer crunch than snow, brittler. I think it should sound musical, tinkling like a piano rendition of winter, but the noise is unassuming, if not entirely ordinary.

Mist hangs in the air, invisible when I am inside it, but ghosting into existence in the distance.The wooden fence posts are dark with moisture, the lines between fattened with ice. I know from experience that the round coatings will crack and fall off in odd ways, small splinters competing with bigger, almost whole sections of clear, solid water that shatter as they hit the ground, should I interrupt their existence with motion.

I don’t give into the temptation, though, leaving the fence undisturbed, and crunch forward, towards the tree, which looks almost like a white cherry blossom tree in bloom. The ice covers all of the smaller branches, whiting them out. It’s breath-taking. Flower-like. Defined by the darker, larger branches supporting it. The tree fills my vision. I’m not sure what I will do once I arrive, but as a destination, it is a wonderful goal.

My face is slightly numb now, adjusting to the cold. Ears and nose have stopped aching, cheeks still cold, but bearably so. I don’t dare take my hands out, though, not ‘til I need them.