Trees that have set down all their leaves line both sides, and between them the path recedes in a straight line. The snow is not thick, so the green of the grass shows through in pale patches, and the sky is a clouded white that has lost almost all its color. Two people are walking, small, at the far end, too distant for their faces or their clothes to be made out.
Standing on a path like this, your breath catches cool at the tip of your nose. Your shoulders rise on their own and your hands go into your pockets, and your eyes shift between the toes of your shoes nearby and the vanishing point far off. The soles of your feet feel through your shoes for whether the soil under the snow is firm or soft.
When you step out into the cold, the body thinks of the destination first. How far you have to go, when you have to be back. If that calculation keeps running in your head the whole time you walk, the path becomes only a stretch to get through.
What if you lowered your ears toward your steps. The sound of snow being pressed down is a thin crunch when the snow is shallow, closer to a squeak when it is deep, and it comes out differently at each spot you tread on the same path. What if you counted only that sound for about ten steps. While you count, you forget the distance left.
The same thing is possible at a bus stop. While waiting for the bus, if you move your toes a little and press down on the frozen ground, the sound on a sidewalk with a thin layer of snow comes out differently than on the path. What to notice then is how much the length of your inhale and your exhale differ from each other, and whether that length shortens when the cold air comes in. There is no need to measure or correct anything, and simply watching is fine.
The snow will melt soon, and the sound you made today can only be heard today.
