"It is with surprise that we finally crest the rise. In the failing light, melted snow lies upon a green hillside, white lace draped across a field. Green grass: couvrir d’herbe. We are still in winter, but the hillside ahead is green, tendrils of ice and snow draped around sprigs of grass. Ah, and the smell: a whisper of sweet thyme and faint dog roses."
Read the book at SinfulFolk.com