The church's steeple is a stump, a remnant of long-ago summer glory.   Its window is like a flower, but one waiting to grow out into the world, stuck for the moment as a promise.  In this winter scene interiors are unlikely.  The church seems solid, a block which no-one can enter, and therefore no refuge.  Beside it, another character: a tree, convulsed by the cold, shapeless like a ghost or an unknowable thing stuck during a transformation into something more amenable.  Then the rafts of ice which fill the bay, a broken mirror or a falling sky, dominating all possibilites, all emotions.

The creature is a marder, a kind of large weasel.  I saw him swimming in the bay in the summer and in winter I wondered where he was.  So here he is, his consciousness confronting realities of the day: watching the tree in its transformative struggle and maybe also the church in which there is no refuge but promise of summer's return.  He is cold and strong.  He will see another summer, at least one more summer.