We walked out along a line of Beech trees, and the low winter sun caught in our eyes, blinding us with shadows and glitter. The air was still as though the year was holding her breath, and bird song was scattered through the silence in crests and waves of pleasure. Between the long lines of tree cast shadows, warm bodied animals moved, camouflaged and almost unseen. Only the rustle of last years brittle leaves, and the hint of light on fur gave them away.
The giant aged trunks of the trees framed windows between them, looking out across the open fields into the white light of the winter sun. In the empty exposed folds of the field the shoots of this years spring burst through the soil like soft green week old stubble. But we stayed sheltered by the lines and bones of the trees which held the structure of the land, despite the changing seasons. Here between the shadows, between the trees, between the fields and the deep woods we stood, and in this space we found ourselves. Winter had stripped everything back, and it was easy to discover the shape of things here, among the clear winters bones.