“Silence is not the absence of sound, but the presence of peace.”
A snow-covered trail winds silently past old, abandoned log buildings. Their roofs sag under the weight of soft February snow, and the branches of tall spruces bend low beneath the heavy whiteness. A low sun filters through the clouds, casting long blue shadows across the snow.
Late February marks the end of the hare hunting season. If the weather allows—no biting cold or bottomless snow—we often head into the forest with Onni. The white surface reveals the hare’s routes even to me, but for Onni, they are a familiar language: fresh signs that only a dog can read with certainty.
Onni pushes forward bravely through the deep snow, tracking the paths of hares with unwavering determination. The forest hare moves lightly and soundlessly with its natural snowshoes—an advantage in these conditions. But Onni has drive and instinct on his side.
I follow a few steps behind, watching and listening. The snow crunches softly beneath my boots, but otherwise, the forest is nearly silent. I pause for a moment, sit on my backpack stool, and open the thermos. A steaming cup warms both my hands and my thoughts. A simple sandwich tastes better here, surrounded by stillness.
There is a peace here that words rarely capture. Everything has come to a quiet halt. Even the birds are silent—they merely observe, as if the forest itself is breathing more gently.
But spring is already moving. The days grow ever so slightly longer. The light lingers a little longer in the treetops. The sun doesn’t just shine—it begins to warm.
It is the quiet in-between, when February leans into March. We walk through the forest—not to get anywhere, but simply to be. To move with the rhythm of the land, listening to the crispness of snow and the peaceful breath of the woods.
