I wiped an arc of condensation off the window with my sleeve and looked through the shards of frost. Everything was white. There was a white horse in a white field breathing white steam. The trees were frosted and the pond was hard and dusted.
The horse was looking at me, not moving, breathing steam. She was saddled. I put on my cold trousers and cold boots and jacket. I went outside.
Now I was breathing steam. The sun was low, making stripes of trunks on the white crunchy grass. I walked up to the horse. She didn’t move but breathed hot on my face and looked at me. I put my foot into the stirrup and hoisted myself into the saddle.