This place I speak of now is a forest. Snow covers the ground, white and fluffy, like a dandelion fluff. The warm sun is just at the horizon, casting an orange glow over the forest, going through the trees like golden water. This place is silent, as if nothing here is allowed to be disturbed. It’s also cold. The leaves on the trees are frozen, with a light, transparent sheet of ice over them, that when the golden light cascades over them, it creates a myriad of color. The snowflakes seem suspended in mid-air, and when touched, drift off as if there was no gravity, making a soft plink when they hit another flake. As a bird flaps from a branch, the snow falls, making a big cloud of the powder-like snow. Off in the distance, I see a fountain. The water is in a stream, caught in time. When a finger of a person walking by touches the stream, it breaks, floating off as it separates into miniature water droplets, where the sun’s light can catch in them, making the snow covered ground a colorful dance floor. The droplets drift off as well, plinking like little glass marbles when they bump into each other and into snowflakes. This that I speak of,is my heaven.