It is Winter, and the cold has set in; still, frigid, indifferent. The air is white, and the ground is hard beneath the soles of my red wellies when I venture outside. The once swirling cocktail of Summery colour has evaporated. . .now the brilliance of the evergreens and the lately defoliating maple is precious and spare; heaven against the pale. It is all delicious. When I sit at my desk, I think to open the window in front of me; to feel the icy stillness on my face; to let it be, and work in front of that glory for an hour or so. Sometimes I do. Then I freeze, and my nose goes shiny and pink. My breath gets warmer as I get colder. I will shut the window then and revel in the knowledge that I'm sealed behind a thin, transparent, warming sheet of glass, safe from a shivery, cutting landscape. I love to experience the stinging slap of sharp air; to be involved in the majesty for a short while. But I love more to view its lovely intensity from a distance; retreated; safe in the embrace of a thick quilt, holding a mug of tea, perhaps reading a book or letting my snug surroundings lull me to sleep with their soporific comfort.