Hiding the Snowbones

I woke to a fresh cover of snow and a wall of fog. One lifted the spirits, the other did its level best to flatten them. Ten minutes after leaving the house and starting the climb up Roseberry, the sky had a change of heart and slowly thinned to an azure blue. The temperature inversion gave up the fight, retreating into a thick band of white cloud that slid through Gribdale Gate like a quiet river beneath a pale, washed-out winter sun. Snow lay everywhere, crisp and bright, clinging to frosted trees and whitening the wooden fence posts. It worked like a white shroud, softening the land and hiding the old “snowbones” of the past.