In that field was summer

Between the passing trees which seemed to shimmer in their density were flecks of gold. There was no wind to lift the branches of the bare forest yet the clearing swept in tides of flaxen colour, like fields of wild grasses in summer, or rolling plains of wheat. Their movement seemed all the more alive in their constancy, as everything else—the naked trees, the snow-covered rock, the cold, hard earth—was still. The weightless heads of those grasses turned to one another to give feather-light kisses, so brief one would wonder if they had even touched. Above that amorous field, one could almost see butterflies fluttering next to moths, and almost hear the quiet hum of bumblebees. There was summer, and here I was in a surrounding winter, looking on. But we must have been moving at an incredible speed, for within a moment winter reigned once more and the glimpse of summer slipped away.