As a farmer, just as I, as a hunter, has familiarity with violent death, it must have come to your attention that even in tragic events there is beauty, and particularly in death come the most noble and admirable character traits individuals can express.

There is something unimaginably beautiful about snow. The still, pristine expanse. The lambent glow of the white purity of the lifeless fields in twilight. When that stillness is disturbed by bounding martens seeking field mice, or red foxes pouncing on unheard murmurs in the tunnels under the pillowed mounds, I feel immense admiration for the irrepressible vitality of life that can persist when the world is concealed and obscured so.

However, rain eventually soaks the fluff and creates a sodden slush that brings a peculiar misery I will never appreciate, except in the breech. Be glad, though you may not enjoy the beauty of snow, you neither suffer the banal torment of slush.