The snowflakes are negative space, flecks of light showing through. I walk under trees' bare bones and feel the snowflakes fizzle on my face. The trees feel sympathetic, as trees always do to me, in all their guises. The sympathy of trees in Montreal's winter comes from their downward arcs and their thick bark, saturated and dark and cracked. I stand beside one old trunk in a line of big maples on one of the north-south streets near Papineau, and lay my gloved hand upon it. The snow is glorious and crunches underfoot, and I repeat the practice my friend Annette told me about, in which you name what is happening with you at that moment: woman walking under sympathetic trees and feeling snowflakes fizzle on her skin. Woman passing Salon Elegancia and noticing the lone beautician stealing a moment to look out the window at the night. Woman looking at man examining a box of salt in the Lebanese grocery, and thinking how beautiful it is to see such an ordinary, miraculous thing. This practice gives my heart an unaccountable surge of gravity and peace. Thank you, Annette.