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Lens of Winter

An alternative getaway. The open sky lies above me as infinite sensations carry my mind.
I am staring wide-eyed up into the beauty of the sky, my camera in hand. Small beaded snowflakes drip into my eyes and trickle down my neck. The manual focus captures every small detail, every contour of the scenery. The trees are alive, pretty and pastel through my eyes, my lens. I blink and come back for a second; my pupils adjust and perceive the moisture and the blur of bright white. All is silent except the ice constricted tree branch, THUMP, thumping near my head. And yet I am calm, I am lost, and it is relaxing. All is silent except for this and the sound of soft feathers falling gently toward the ground. This warm presence of snow closing in around my limp, unperturbed body is all I know. The occasional drip crawls down my neck and sends a quick shiver through my nerves. I am on the verge of claustrophobia, enveloped in a white New England mess. Still, it is inviting, jubilant, it’s exhilarating. It is winter.



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