In the still Arctic silence, as the pale twilight of the midday touches the landscape, the trees of the forest stand peacefully under their thick blankets of snow.
There, they reach skywards, as if straining to be the first to see the sun this year. Their branches still heavy with the cold grasp of Winter. And yet, there is a feeling of serene confidence that they will pull through to greet the Spring.
And in the gloomy shadows, tiny saplings are also pushing through the banks and drifts of white on the forest floor. Not yet a hand-span tall. So fragile. Down here, there is less light and more snow.
I wonder if the little ones shiver?