The sound of snow under your feet marks the heart of winter. Prints in the snow hold stories like a bookshelf full of winter tales. There is the one rushing off to work. There is the one coming home from school, kicking an ice block ahead of him, stopping to examine sticks and rocks on his way. There is the one searching for food, ruffling up his feathers in the merciless minus degrees. There is the one who roams free, hunting birds and mice, paying the price of freedom in his search of a place for the night. Smoke rising from the pipes, frost popping in the corners. Time for the blue moment. Only a rare occasion in the course of the year. In the heart of winter.