Winter Morning

The best part of a winter morning is standing at the window and looking out at the frozen world. Standing close enough to the glass that the chill seeps through the panes and it rests like a film on your skin. Just enough chill to appritiate the warmth of walls, and the fireplace, and the warm tea in your hands.

When the sun has come up enough to burn yellow on the snow, and maybe melt the first thin layer of snow at the top so that it gleams. The icicles hang like glass: sturdy, strong, and beautiful. The old swingset with the red wood stands out in contrast to the white earth and the dullish bark of the trees. This moment is a glimpse.

When a single bird seems to remain, though the rest have gone, but he does not sing. He sits in the empty trees, jumping from on barren branch to another. Seemingly without purpose or care, yet contented. Then disrupted into flight by a squirrel whose own bushy tail swells with the breeze as he scampers down the limbs of the tree. and through the tree the silohette of a cat is visible. She watches the squirrel for a moment, though she makes no attempt to capture him and callously lowers her head. Slinking around the corner of a grey brick wall and dissapearing from view.

Now blades of grass peak out of the snow. Only a few are visible, yet more appear as the sun continues showering its relentless rays on the grass. Icicles start to melt and drop just outside the window. Their landing in the snow below is barely audible. But it signals the end. The end of a moment. The end of an experience.

Eden Park and the Dangerous Journey

the right side of the street

the great wall

when the sky goes green

(s)tumble down

this is where we live

bridge over frozen water

no sky = no limit