Tunnel vision

Ghostly whispers of mist spill over the gritstones like nature’s potion brewing in a cauldron. Fingers of frost clutch mercilessly at the meadow; slender blades frozen in space. Smothering fog hangs in the trees like a relic from the past. A silent spirit rises from the chestnut mare’s flank. It feels as if time is at a standstill. Echoes are muffled and silenced as I fly beneath the arching boughs delighted by crumpled, bole-brown leaves scattering behind. And the world stops and stares and I wonder what it sees.