It is not without a certain sense of quiet comfort I am now writing by moonlight reflecting off the snow sown field in front of me.
The steeply banking hills that surround us hold their bristled pines like candles. The white roofed cabins that speckle this open valley boast only porch lights and the heavy glow of a humble Christmas tree.
As I sit here and watch the light shiver in sequined snow, I can't help but think back to when my mother and I made similar villages: cotton for the landscape, tin foil for the backyard brook, small twigs for the now naked trees.
How silly we were to think the villagers would not notice the metallic water and the un-melting snow.
How mystified we would be if we saw as I see now a small snake of smoke, air slithering to the mountains.