I took a walk in the white and watched brown hair blow across, against a frozen face which I could not see, only feel. The sky was gray-white and the snow was white-gray, the brown hair a frame to view the bright day. The snow was white-gray and the sky was gray-white, the brown hair whipped lightly and strangely and rightly. I would see none of this had my white walk been  nightly.

There was quiet.
There was detachment.
There were chimes.
There were trees.
There was sky falling as snow.
There was in between.
There was all of it to see.
There was all of it.