A Forrest in winter

This place is white. Its a forest, clearly. A white forest. Snow is here
and there, far and wide and high and low. The whiteness is clean,
pure and moreover innocent. I am delighted to make my mark on
the untouched carpet of snow beneath my feet. My senses are
heightened in this isolated place. For as far as the eye can see, the
colour palette is composed of hues of greys, greens and levels of
white and the sharp light toys with the iridescent falling snow. The
forest sounds are distinctive and they echo rhythmically around me.
The cold atmosphere sucks on my body heat like a leech sucks
blood from its prey. Snow glides gently, gracefully from above me;
caressing my numb cheeks. I sharply draw breath; the air is
dehydrated, unyielding and overwhelming. The isolation of this vast
wilderness cautions me to my own mortality. I am like a needle in a
haystack. I am a tiny dot on the vast landscape of this imposing
woodland.
My view is stunning. The forest green is crisped by the winter chill.
The recent snowfall lays itself on nature like icing on a Christmas
cake. The unique colours of a winter forest are faded by the
pixelated frost. Nowhere else on earth have I witnessed such natural
beauty. Silver and iridescent white collide with the shrubs on the
forest floor, like oil and water they do not mix. Vertical lines of pine
trees stand to attention like soldiers in a parade. The rigidity of the
frozen branches are illusive. Small bursts of harsh winds crack the
twigs from the branches and the sounds of breaking limbs are crisp
and clear as their mutilation interrupts the defining silence
surrounding me.