Ice-cold snowy mornings, a dim light, you hide behind the curtain near the fireplace. And suddenly you can hear a distant nose, the steps of black-clothed hunters in the snow going to the forest, someone singing, someone skating on the lake.

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.
- Archibald Lampman

[Cover by Bruegel]

10 tracks