The children had arrived with their small motorbikes, their laughter echoing through the cold air as they carved their paths into the white canvas.
Some lines ran smooth and elegant, like ribbons flowing in the wind. Others looped and twisted in wild, chaotic patterns, telling stories of sudden turns, daring races, and playful chases. From above, the marks resembled an artist’s brushstrokes, an abstract masterpiece woven from speed and spontaneity.
By evening, the children were gone, their laughter fading with the last light of day. The meadow stood silent once more, its patterns left behind like forgotten messages in the snow—temporary, yet full of life. Soon, the wind and fresh snowfall would erase them, but for now, the meadow held onto its brief, beautiful dance.
