Swirled the milk-white snow; whistled the mountain wind; rattled the hollow pines.  Winter.

White, a wall of white; wind, a wave of wind; wood, a whirl of woods.  Winter – the wraiths of winter.

Snow, snow, snow! – as far as the eye could see – which was not very far.  Had the landscape been visible, its solitary grandeur would have been more awe inspiring than even the white world of swirling snow; rocky outcroppings, coated now with a mantle of purity; tall evergreens, pointing long fingers at the airy vault; grand peaks, majestic symbols of age and stability.  But the landscape was not visible.

Instead, a traveler would have been haunted only by the ghosts of pine trees – cheerful ghosts, for the day was a bright though not a clear one, and the crisp crackle of their clanging boughs suggested no midnight horrors – cheerful ghosts, looming through the whirl of snow – light, powdery snow, lifted by the breeze, dropped by the clouds, puffing in the air, dancing to the tune of the wind’s whistle.  But there was no traveler.

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