The dreams with the huntsman are really quite so beautiful. Had another one today. He was warm and moist and gentle and kind, thick wool of his clothes, his breath and his voice, but that is not the part that got to me, for kissing is wonderful, but it is not what I live for. We left the dark, basement-of-a-cottage-like indoors in which we were fully clad to go outside and then we were not so dressed anymore. I was normal, my evening, summer hunting clothes, but he wasn't a human any longer. There were 3 feet of snow up to my waist, the lightest, dryest snow you can imagine, and I pushed through it as if it was feathers. It was nighttime, we were on a hill, surrounded by a forest, black spruces, ancient old bare oaks, as quiet as only the dead of winter can be. Starless, flawless night, silver and still, the hills around us perfectly dark, clear and distant. Not a single light, civil or natural, anywhere, just the wild glow of snow that's never been thread upon. He walked behind me, now in the form of an old, large dark grey fox. We just walked. Just the sound of crushed snow. Waist-high snow. Starless sky, black spruces, two stuck souls, and it was perfect. Like a poem to exist within.