The park is hushed at this hour of the morning. Clouds conceal the sky from here to there, and they hold the promise of snow. The silent trees along the trail are baroque columns holding up the winter day, and perhaps the whole world. The interlaced branches over her head are cathedral arches dusted with fresh snowfall.
Now and then, the wind dislodges snowflakes, and they fall to earth, glittering faintly in the murk and whispering softly as they come to rest in other places among the trees.
To walk along the trail would be a fine thing, but the thought of marking the pristine snow with her footprints is troubling. There is no need to announce her presence here or publish a claim to these moments and their perfect trappings. She will simply stand here and watch as the light dances around her and everything unfolds.