The snow stood up in drifts around the edges of the frozen pond. Gusts of wind cleaned away huge irregular circles on the surface of the pond, so that, as the sun set behind the scattered hills near the bay, dull red reflections slid momentarily across the constantly shifting patches of bare ice. The swirling configurations of slightly banked snow changed once again. But now the entire pond gave off a kind of phosphorescence, the iced surfaces blending into the gathered snow. It seemed at one moment to be the glow of the snow itself, at another moment to be the mirror-image of the still bright sky.
The snow begins to fall again, and the pond is slowly covered with a uniform blueness. The wind has died down. The peaks it formed are gradually leveled. And now a red stream runs briefly along the snow, tracing a path of narrow, steaming trenches. Snow flies. The blood starts new paths in numerous directions, until it is finally frozen and encased by the faster and faster falling snow. The flying snow, yielding to gravity, falls to the ground.