brisk air beckons me for a mid-day walk in the woods where winter is revealing herself. a lone wren delivers her song a determined, sharp voice with little foliage muting her trill. mushrooms still thrive during these early, damp days clinging to log hotels sleeping on the path. red berries alert from beneath their thorny branches enjoy me from afar, now on your way. water swims along the stream stroking over rocks rising from the bed they converse in gurgles where they meet. low, twisted branches wave naked fingers suggesting the coming change in temperature. and otherwise. burrowed deep within my forest's robe securely wrapped in comfort and hope i am balanced, outside and within. i take this winter walk in gratitude for all i've brought forward with me and for that which i chose to leave behind.
“winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.” – Sinclair Lewis