By footsteps

Stockinged feet in the snow, clouds at her ankles. The day is starting. The day is ending. The moon has just blinked over the horizon. The moon has just been washed away.

Her hat’s wide brim affords her the long view: high mountains, wide vistas. Her steps a sure steadying on slick surfaces. She doesn’t need boots. She needs to feel the curve of the ground with the soles of her feet. One learns to love a landscape by footsteps.

This is what she knows:

How snow sculpts the land at dawn and dusk.
That shade, shadow and stone lose distinction.
Broad sunlight gives too much, batters the eyes.

She is not cold. She is not lost. Not in these hills. No matter if frost covers the lichen or all the cairns sleep. She’s not in a hurry. There is no despair here, only her own footsteps. The air is still. Her cloak and skirts flag up because she moves like she knows this place. She does.