After a night of fitful appearances from behind the drifting clouds, the moon has at last emerged to illuminate the frozen town. It has not been cold enough for the snow to freeze, and it remains a soft powder which dissolves quickly in my hand. Nor has it been warm enough to melt the snow from the branches of the trees, and now the branches and twigs are all bright in the moonlight. Did I say the other day that the trees in the fog seemed like their own shadows? Now, snow clad and moonlit, they seem like their own ghosts, and their shadows are stark on the white ground. A few ice crystals on the pine needles catch the moonlight and reflect it against the dark sky, and are as bright as the stars above them. When day comes, and the sun warms the air, the snow will begin to drop from the trees with soft thuds. But for now, everything is suspended in this muffled silence. Everything, but time.