It was still winter in Cricket's dreams. But not quite as foreboding, or as bitter. He was outside and even with the snow, it didn't seem to touch him overmuch, and the sky was that brilliant robin's egg blue that always seemed to make the snow covering everything gleam that much whiter.

And he wasn't alone either. Cricket would notice that not far from the log he was settled against, there was a bit of movement in a hill of snow that resolved in a tiny, angular face poking out, all white fur and glossy black eyes. Nose twitching once, twice, little round ears shedding snow as the little winter-furred stoat slunk it's way out of the snowbank and scampered closer in that awkward weasel gallop, coming to a halt near Cricket's feet.

Hello!