There’s something very sharp about the winter sun: it cuts through landscapes of black, blue, and white, separating forest from snowy meadow and sky.

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There is no hesitation and no blurry edges. Everything is the sum of what remains when you remove what it’s not.

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Geometrical patterns. Frozen moments in time – the flow of brownish water caught in the moment of falling, like stalactites out in the open.

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The sky is endless.

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The ice is thick.

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It hangs on roofs like winter’s promise of spring – because the only way an icicle can form is if the sun is warm enough to melt the snow.

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