Snow. Everywhere there is snow. It lies in neat layers on roofs, in intricate crystalline networks in the branches of the bare trees, in hard-packed pathways underhoof. No clouds are in the sky to trap any of the sun's heat; light scatters off the snow in an infinity of golden glittery flecks and dances away back into the sky. The air is still, the main street of Ponyville quiet on this Tuesday midmorning. The ponies outside go about their business quickly, bundled in scarves and woolen hats and winter saddles and covered boots. Twilight Sparkle is one of these few.