The scene is thus.
I am sitting in a rock lined pool. Dark green and brown moss, dead and soaked, cling fiercely to the outcroppings. Behind me, a steady bubble of water burbles and sighs, the only sound in my morning reverie. On my left, huge drifts of snow loom over me, leading further up the embankment to a line of ancient spruce framed by steel sky.
On my right, in the mere, a gently decreasing slope sends water tinkling over smooth slate. The small stream opens up to a series of low pools, steam issuing from warmer spots of water. There is marsh ground about, but it is deeply covered with soft round snow. Low hummocks give way to sparse forests of twisted black spruce that sink into the marsh.
Beyond lie the mountains, at this moment heavily clouded and obscured by snow. But I know the peaks well, having oft gazed at them with a painful sense of awe.
There is finally light enough to write by, and the first chirrups of of birdsong has reached my ears, though dawn is still long in c