In the open spaces, the cleared roads and fields, the snow is deep enough to drown in.
Sometimes in the spring, we find the bodies of the creatures that attempted to cross the expanse.
You can always tell where the small groves of trees are left in between the drift.
The snow on the fields is pristine and deadly, but in those small islands, is a map of life and activity.
Paw prints, wing prints, body indentations- the trees are both shelter and activity.
A safe place to rest, to hide, to wait out the endless expanse of winter.
There are fewer trees in those great fields now.
Sometimes, when I look out on the unmarked surface of those cold deserts, I can hear the soft calls of the life that has long since passed and drifted onwards.
Adapting to change can be difficult… or impossible.