The air is cold, crisp, fresh. A deep breath shocks the lungs. The air hangs in stillness around the earth; cold, dark, motionless. It is winter; a season that is stoic and serious, yet stunning in beauty and natural wonder. Winter is not coy or bashful—it is exposed, raw. The trees stand naked, no playful leaves to decorate them and sway this way or that way, showing lighthearted whimsy. There is only pure tree– bare, raw, and eerie in its stillness. There is only the tree standing alone; making its bold statement of identity.
The mornings creep up slowly, a sluggish simmer from darkness to light. The clouds loom overhead and we know not what to expect. Winter is unpredictable. In one moment, the sun glows from above, creating the illusion of warmer times. In a flash, the sun is kidnapped and replaced with spots of gloomy grey that threaten to turn into something ominous—freezing rain? Snow? Ice? All of these? It’s unknown, left to the discretion of Mother Nature. She sends snow—big, mis-shaped flakes of pure white that flicker, float and land on the bare earth that winter has exposed. The snowflakes pile and become a blanket of purity, asking the world to slow down and reflect. The earth is covered by a silence that only snow can create. It seems as if time is standing still. Staring out the frost covered window, it could be 1811 or 2011, who could tell? The snow has come; the world has stopped, if only just for a moment.