The sun edges over the lake, a glorious orange burst of light. And the light washes over the rippling waves and the still land. The light is immense and over-whelming. The sun sits low in the sky on these winter-like mornings and the light cuts through everything like a sharp silver blade.
You think the light can warm you, but it's cold, stark, a bright light with no warmth at all. Everything is brittle. The ground is dusted with snow. The trees are bare; long-reaching branches like gnarled fingers and arms extending out into the brightness.
You can't make it out here without a pair of thick gloves, and a ridiculous hat, and big clomping boots. But if you are well-armed, it's fine, you can live in it, you breathe in the cold air and expel it, and you watch as your breath rises like vapor clouds before you. It's like "dragons" breath. A breath that is visible, it let's you know that you are still alive. And it's good.