Close your eyes in the middle of the open field and you could convince yourself it is the edge of summer, the sun beating down so completely, filling up the space between mountains with pooling warmth.
From below, a coolness swirls as though you can feel the surface of the snow melting in waves, wafting up and away into the open blue sky. The air still smells of snow and we walk out across the blinding white expanse of our field knowing it could be the last time this season, with the top layer softening, partially melted crystals caught somewhere between ice and water.
There is still solid footing beneath, the cold trapped amongst last year’s folded up grasses keeping things frozen just enough and we only punch through to the spongy underneath occasionally. But the bare ground around the bases of trees and shrubs expands a little more each day, the snow-cover shrinks, freezes and shrinks some more.
And the dogs, black shapes against brilliant white, make the most of the last days of our snowy field.