7th of February

I wake up to snow. 
They say it’s coming, it’s in the forecast, but you can’t always believe what you’re told.
It has come at the right time though.
It always makes me feel better, calmer. It’s just so beautiful - the whiteness, the pureness, the way it falls. It makes it feel like everything can start again.
Of course I have to go out in it, to walk over it and through it, take it all in. Last time, not long ago when there was much more of it, it was like a dream. 
There is still a swathe of blue sky so it is nice outside, quiet. 

The snow makes the sky clearer, brighter. 
I see the blue in the shadows of the snow, in the grooves of footprints. It’s almost purple today, the colour of a bruise. We were always told to add blue when we drew snow.
I go along the river, to the very end of the path and up the steps for the first time in a while, past the rusted iron bridge and the gorse that has skewered the snow on its spikes.
When I’m at the top I look back and can see the way the clouds are swept into a wave, a grey curve that crests over the town like a tsunami caught in time.
I wouldn’t usually go to the other side of the river after already being up the longer path - it’s one or the other - but I want a longer walk, to stretch and ease my legs, so I cross the bigger bridge that hovers over the dark water. 
On a second smaller bridge, one that goes over a shallow muddy patch where the river has forked, I look down at the flat stones that are built up to make a sort of wall - at the dark gaps in between where I know, I think, otters are in the winter. I wonder if they are around yet. 
Just as I take a few steps to go along the path, cutting across a triangle of snow, a movement catches my eye in the water - a slick, undulating curve.
An otter.
I can’t help but feel I conjured him, that he was plucked from my imagination and put into the river.
I start to think what else I might want to summon.
I decide to follow him along the river, turning back and going over the bridges again. On the bigger one I stop to meet him, to catch him going underneath. At the other side he looks up at me, flips and spins then flows with the current of the water.
He’s fast. 

He slips under the surface and emerges a few metres ahead, doing this every few seconds. But I manage to keep track of him, to spot the dark hump against the water and the glare of the sun. 
For a moment I think I should let him go, to stop where I am then just go home. But I stay beside the river, following it up to the steps and the main bridge of the town. You can cross and go to the other side, until the water opens up to the bay, to the sea, to the sky.
I think I’ve probably lost the otter but I spot him one more time, at the curve before another bridge.
There is a building in the way then and after it a little slipway I scan in hopes the otter has come onto it for a rest, to have an early lunch of a just-caught fish.
I cross this bridge, keeping my eyes on the river below. 
The only movement is the water itself. 
The otter has disappeared, for now. 
Things so often come then go just as quickly.

The snow will be gone soon too.