Up in the Rocky mountains, somewhere along the 45th parallel, there is an isolated community built around a lake that is known for it's mythological water monster. In the winter, the lake freezes early in the season. In one night, a meter and a half of down-fluff snow lands upon every carmel-smelling pine, rustic cabin, and stone peak. The purity and dryness of the snow causes the lone body to feel warm, despite the freezing temperatures that read on the wall-thermometers.
There are fields, large flat places that are filled with veins from the water that rushes down the mountain in spring. First, though, before all the snow disappears, there is a brief thaw that melts the topmost layer of snow on this field, turning it into a crisp coating of ice. Medium-sized children and the town's dogs traverse across this crust, headed no place in particular.
Once all the frozen terrain is gone, the fields flood, harboring seasonal bird flocks. Gentle trumpeting can be heard.
The water eventually drains away, leaving empty capillaries. Soon, grasses and strange flowers grow, fast and tall from the fertile earth. A curious walker can enter into one of these capillaries, and travel under a chlorophyll canopy along a dirt labyrinth that eventually leads to a mountain foot.
As you walk through the dry stream beds, look up and see brief glimpses of sky. The tall blades of grass cast dainty shadows upon your warm arms. White cupped flowers with violets-based petals smell sweet and rich like roses, but earthier in some way. Your feet leave shallow impressions in the damp silt soil. All you can hear is wind, water over rocks from a stream you cannot see, and the beating wings of dragonflies as they pass your ears.
