The pallid fields give no stricture. I can see through the veneer of soft haze deepening into the abyss. The wind softly whispers to the inert land waiting for the summer solstice to come and melt away the ice. But luckily today the sun is negligent. It leaves the land to perform its own opus. The sound of wind having conversations with the trees, the sun slowly chasing the moon out of hiding, and the stars dancing, embodying the sky. What more could garnish such a masterpiece?
It doesn’t need to be rational, or have a reciprocal day. It only needs this one day. Let all other thoughts drift into oblivion and enjoy the soft white snow. Not disturbing the parable being told between the stars. The story of what will befall in the morning, when the dregs of night run from the exasperated sun coming to melt away the snow. That’s the heritage of winter.
