One cold night in the winter of 1995, restless in my studio, I got up and walked outside our cabin and up the hill into the woods. The snow lay deep on the ground but the winds had packed and smoothed it; I could walk and only crunch through a little. On the trail under the spruce and fir trees there was little snow; it was all still sitting on the branches. The light from the moon could be seen coming from behind the hill. But the earth turned to meet the moon and it came on over the top of the hill and hung in the trees for a while. The earth turned again and the moon rose up into the night sky: it shone on the snow, making the snow glisten and turn. It was like a strange blue daylight, yet the shadows where the trees shaded the moonlight, deep and dark, were blinding and obliterating my sight. I thought I was under the lake, under the ice, deep down in the cold waters, floating slowly and looking up.

As I walked along I began to have a familiar sensation. It is a sensation everyone has experienced: you sense something you cannot see.