Mid-morning, and the snow on the roof has sprouted tendrils of ice reaching for the ground. They drip; they sway in the breeze; they let go.

Rain. The snow’s almost gone, but the forest floor has been altered: no longer scruffy and mammalian, but sleek as a red-backed salamander.

I come out during a snow squall and am quickly camouflaged in white. Twenty minutes later, the sky is blue and I’m squinting into the sun.

Out before dawn, I hear the crunch of boots up in the woods. It stops. All over the mountain, hunters are sitting silently in the trees.

A half-hour before dawn, the stars begin to lose their luster—always a more melancholy thing than a sunset to me. The wind picks up.