This morning I wake to a shimmering, diamond-bright blanket cast across the land—winter’s familiar touch returning with its quiet authority. Every blade of grass, every fallen leaf, every humble stone is dressed in frost, glittering beneath the beam of my torch as though the earth itself has been dusted with crushed stars.
My weather app insists it is –3°C, but it feels colder, deeper—something that seems to seep not just into the air, but into the bones of the morning. I’ve dressed well for the freeze, yet the chill finds its way through my gloves within minutes, biting sharply at my fingertips until they retreat in defeat into the warm, fleece-lined sanctuary of my pockets. Winter always seems to know our weak points.
Above us, Jupiter leads the way—a solitary beacon blazing in the ink-black sky. There is something comforting about its constancy, about a planet burning brilliantly across such distance, guiding us westward through the frozen meadow. It feels almost like an ancient companion, one that has watched countless mornings just like this.
Dawn arrives, slowly at first, as the black sky softens into deep blue. Then the blue thins, becoming fragile near the horizon. A muted wash of orange—almost brown—begins to seep upward as the day pushes back the night with gentle persistence. It is a quiet, delicate battle; there is no rush in winter’s unfolding.
Carys bounds ahead, a joyful streak of motion through the frosted grass. Her eyes catch my torchlight and glow a vivid yellow, twin lanterns in the stillness. The reflective stripes on her harness flicker like dancing ribbons as she weaves through the meadow, pausing only to return with a stick clamped proudly in her mouth—an irresistible invitation to play, even in the coldest of dawns.
A sudden, soft flutter stirs the silence beside me. A blackbird perches proudly on the fence, feathers puffed, posture regal despite the chill. He watches the ground with determined focus, though I know the worms are buried deep beneath the frozen earth this morning. Berries will have to sustain him today, small rubies of winter hung upon branches like forgotten jewels.
As the light spreads quickly across the sky, the world brightens into a pale, delicate blue. Wisps of cloud stretch across it—fine strokes of orange and gold, like the sky is painting its own quiet masterpiece. Today would be a perfect day for adventure. A perfect day to climb, to wander, to let the hills claim us for a few sacred hours. But routine and responsibility tug gently at my sleeve, reminding me that not every beautiful morning can be surrendered to wildness. So we turn toward home, steps soft across the frost, breath rising like silver smoke. Still, I carry a hope with me—that the weekend will bless us with another morning like this, another gift of cold light and quiet wonder.