Winter upon the ground,
fresh snow fall all around,
with barely anyone around,
and our breath like fog in the air,
as we try to keep warm,
on our way to the log cabin,
whilst keeping an eye out for bears,
quiet, and eagle eyed,
and not wanting to disturb any bears around,
and our footsteps in the snow they make barely a sound,
and as we cross it,
the snowflakes fall,
and with each footstep we begin to look more like ghosts,
and winter, it is well below,
minus -30 or so,
in the white landscape,
on a journey to a log cabin that we own,
and as we go,
we drink whiskey with a grin,
and look forward happily,
to the fire at the cabin,
beside which,
we will warm ourselves and feed ourselves,
and revel in the comforting glow,
after a glorious trip,
through the fresh-faced beauty,
of the landscape covered in snow.