I awoke to a pre-dawn sky of broken cloud. A light dusting of snow had fallen in the darkness of the morning and the forest was dusted in sugary powder. I arose before the sun and breakfasted lightly on farm eggs and bacon, then took my bow and wandered to a favorite lookout at the far west of the Elfwood, taking a partridge for the table along the way. It was a magnificent sunrise, there at the foot of the great western wood I call the Rusalka Forest. Just as the sun rose over the eastern ridge, the clouds broke and it cast brilliant golden rays over the mountains. An eagle sailed light as a ghost over the forest, luminous in shafts of early sunlight. The forest glowed like a land of spirits beneath that sublime sun, the evergreens brilliant dark against the white powder while hardwoods raised skeletal branches to the whitening sky. It is a good day to live; a good day to dwell in an enchanted forest.