the white silence

living in the winter in a rural area of a national park is a special sensation, it sharps the mind to register the everywhere nothingness and the silence of the lambs. there are a few birds who whip up with their beaks the rotten autumn leaves and scatter them all around, picking in the soil in the hope to outwit an earthworm, there is a quite acrobatic squirrel that runs from tree to tree even along the thin and fragile twigs high above the frozen ground, the doves are always grouped in a swarm, looking for waste left by humans, a couple of jays with their black and white plumage are whipping together in the witty fields, ruling the smaller birds around, on the roof of the opposite cabin there is a thick carpet of snow that seems to fall off of the roof. the icicles on the roof outscore one and a half meter, they stand in a row and seem to function as a pan flute for the icy snow queen. i empty my mind from the already nothingness in my brain in the hope to fill up the gaps like a monk in nirvana, but i never was induct in the secrets of such a belief, despite my ancestors were free masons.