Lately I’ve been hiking in Switzerland. We went up into the mountains, donning the snowshoes, and walked through the winter landscape. We started, when the mists turned the landscape into a magical theatre. Far away there wasn’t anything seen anymore.
The mists do not hide
They reveal all the treasures
You might just walk by
No one walked, where we had set out our path across the meadows, through dense or less dense forests, crossing the green border to France, and crossing back. The snow had turned to be very heavy and snow and melted water fell on us from the mighty fir trees or the smaller beech trees. Snow was clinging to the snowshoes and walking grew heavy.
Glaring snow and sky
The deep green and black of firs
The deer disappears
Then the sun broke through, thinning the clouds, which now were running above within one’s reach.
Later we reached the summer pasture with the chalet, now closed of course, but it was a serene place for a picnic.
The snow did not only record our imprints, but we saw, where deer and hare had run.
The hills do not mind
But the snow can't keep secrets