It’s that time of year, at this high latitude, where there is not true full daylight. The sky colours are of an extended dawn, pinkish purple, dark blueish purple, turquoise, and it is almost midday by the clock.
And so the evening sky is already here too. Different times all at once. And when the snow comes there's the darkness of a cover, of the sky itself dissolving into tiny white damp particles that wrap everything, yes even you, they bring the air in close to you, then crowd it, drench it, that area that makes up your whole world, that band of air and light between the earth you walk on and the vast and faraway and seeming close enough to touch and hold your hand, that blue that we call sky, it vanishes as you breathe in air that's wet against your skin. The world becomes an unfamiliar place, no longer the streaming- towards-you, life-upholding and caressing one. And that hint of possible danger is so uplifting, so desirable, so to be sought-after, a glint of gold.
Then travelling back, out of the city, just 3 hours later, the sky is pink again, not just on the horizon but spreading across half the sky, yellow pink, it gets bigger and bigger and now it has reached down, turning more blue grey, and blows across the road, delicate rose tinged cloud, a mist that has turned to snow and then has turned around and headed back.
And now the sky is ablaze with hazy light and in the west on the horizon, there is torchlight where the sun once was.
We are heading back into forests and fields, all thick with snow. And the sky, the usual colours of blue green, yellow pink and purple grey blue, watches everything. Strips of coloured cloud against a green sky, such safety, this colour, this sky, that's how this dazzling world is now.
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