The trees lining the path are bare of leaves. They’re taking a breather as they wait to come back to life in the spring. Right now they’re sleeping. It’s as if they are folded in on themselves, with their skeletal profiles. Their branches, which form a labyrinthine tangle of webs, are just arms frozen by the winter. We all know that this apparent lack of life is transitory, and that they’ll wake up when the good weather comes. Goethe wrote: “Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.”