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The near-impossible beauty of March.

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Tall shadows of trees stretching over a snowy field reflect the skyblue overhead.

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There is no blue like the hypnotic and soft surreal cold blue of March.

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It is the fantasy blue of  distance, that of all those faraway mountains that cannot be reached no matter how long you travel and toil towards them. Only in March is that blue of the unreachable brought up close, suddenly all those strange gates lie opened there right in front of you.

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Only in March you can step inside the shadow and walk through the trees,

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hold out your hand and touch the blue substance of the horizon.