Above frozen grass the edges in the distance are traced by the dusk. The faded lines trickle into my camera through the haze, but the images are blurry. The frozen dew crunches underneath my feet as I follow the stream back.
Everything is bathed in golden light, and the mountains hum underneath the warming air. The wind rushes up their weathered faces from the valleys below to rejoin a cloudless sky. I walk along the ridgeline into the sun.
The paths through the grass were worn through to the dirt and the wooden benches beside them rested on bright grey pads of concrete. One by one, the lights in the windows of the towers shut off and the shrines lay empty.
Here, the forest surrounds. Seeds sleep, waiting for the thaw, but every day the snow drifts over the top of the mountain and the cold clings to the shadows. Walking under the deep green I see once-hidden places still swallowed by white, and I steal quiet sounds from the clear air to bring back home.