Walking

On the first days of real winter, walking is a dream…The light is back and my mind is soaring

And to be a dog is a dream…

No sun, but the trees in their white blazers are my beacons

We pass the fence, from which trees once made a futile try to escape

Everything is white – but things hidden have kept their colours

There is only a faint stir in the water – Everything is soft, still and quiet