unus dies par omni
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ.
Nature is wont to be hidden.
There is snow outside and a fire going in the fireplace. The black dog is asleep, her tail beating against the carpet with the rhythm of her dreams. The sky is louring, pressing down the hill into the white of the trees; in the room, the crackle of a turning page and the temptation to mark out a clever turn of phrase, a pleasant notion.