Winter is bitter in New England. Cold and chilling; it pinches your cheeks and leaves them blush with numbness. It is fleeting and yet lasts what seems to be an eternity. The snow piles on top of more snow until all the world is white and dingy around the edges from sand and dirt, plowed up and strewn about. It ends sweet with maple scenting the air and billowing out from the doors of barns and floating upon the last remaining snowflakes of the season. Catch it on your tongue and you freeze still for a tiny moment, trapped in the mystical moments of life lived simply and wonderfully. There has never been a place more magical. A place that stops still and silent the moment the first snow dusts the ground.
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