Is it the sun or the setting moon?

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It was the fault of the moon or maybe it was a setting sun? 

Clawing rays grab a hold of the mountain peak. 

Flinging a hop skipping beam across the path.

Snow clings to illumination. 

It warms my toes.

Wind bites at my cheeks, or is it a burn.

Solitude eludes me.

Chattering wind rattles through the trees.

A laughing chorus, giddy and rich stand guard.

A shiver slides up the mountain side. 

The canvas before me dims to dark orange more purple than red.

Feet fight for traction, give up. 

They stop and try to stay above the hold.

Standing still puffs of soft white clouds appear on my exhale. 

They dissipate into the dark. 

The moon, or maybe it was the sun, 

let go. 

Darkness is abated by unrelenting snow.

The canvas melts into a path of glowing shimmering light. 

Solitude comforts me.