the heart’s slow turning

At a certain point on the run home from Les Bossons on a winter afternoon, you cross from the realm of sunset to the realm of dusk. You leave behind the delicate pink glow of the Dome du Gouter and the elegant red Aiguilles du Chamonix and the frost underfoot becomes deeper, more satisfyingly crunchy, as you pace along the streets that see very little sun during these colder months. The candy floss trail of an aeroplane over the Col du Lachat reminds you of the colours that are unfolding behind you but you yearn now for the bright, cosy windows and slow, winding chimney smoke of the chalets of Les Houches.

Outside your front door, before being enveloped by the warmth of the sitting room that has two cats sprawled out, dozing placidly on the sofa, you inhale the sharp air deeply and are quietly, abundantly, gloriously thankful.

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