Angel,
We are walking along the dirt road that leads to the cottage. The road is cut through mixed forest of birch, poplar, maple, pine, and cedar; following the natural curves of the land until it reaches the lake and the cottage.
At the beginning of December we will be the only ones on the lake and it will be almost silent and very still. Slender bare branches rake the pale blue sky and a thin light plays in the trees. We walk hearing only the sounds of leave beneath our feet and our breath which hangs ephemeral white clouds before our faces. Under a clear cold sky the forest glows but here the light mostly attaches itself to you.
We walk toward the cottage close together as we always do. We will walk back to the cottage to where a fire will warm us, to where we will sit and eat and drink strong coffee. We will watch the lake and the closing down of the day. We will watch the stars come out in impossible numbers to puncture a sky black as a raven's wings. We will stay here a while wandering the woods, watching deer in the meadows, and letting the world move without us.
We will breathe.
Just me.
