The sun peeks out tentively behind the horizon,
its rosy fingers stretching to grip the cloudless sky.
Fluffy snow, white as a lamb's fleece, blankets the rocky
face of the bank.
A crisp pine smell pervades the air, sticky sweet sap oozing from
moss green pine needles, shifting under the
padded paws of a furtive crimson fox.

Swans soar through the morning
sunshine, bobbing up and down,
wings curled downwards, then pumping
upwards, each lithe movement propelling
the plump downy body forward,
feathers splayed apart, caressing the fog and
catching the gentle breeze, glistening ivory against
the pale sunlight,
bobbing heads tilted, obsidian eyes glinting
dully in the orange light, beaks slicing through the foggy Alaskan air
elongated necks slightly quivering with every down stroke,
throaty squawking reverberating against the muffled
sigh of the wind twisting through the forest.

The majestic rushing waterfall leaps and
pours down in great torrents,
mist rising off of its banks like a gentle blanket.
The early hues of the morning
are caught within thick churning bubbles and foam,
shimmering with each ebb and swell of the crests.