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Exhalations seem to suspend in the rarified air, and on sunny days, the atmosphere shimmers with a million microscopic flashes, a hoarfrost with nothing to cling to but exposed skin and hair.

Today, it’s hard not to be smitten by the beauty of this place, the snow, the hoarfrost coating every limb on the willows that line the field, the stillness of land at rest.

The 1959 watercolor shows the moon just edging above the horizon with the sky so cold that the stars seem to have frozen to the firmament like hoarfrost on a window.

Stars illuminate the darkness as a thin coat of hoarfrost begins to form on the grass outside my window.

I wonder if it’s hoarfrost on the ground.