The angle of the sun bent across the horizon, deepening meadows and hillsides into amber, blue, orange and reds.
Sorrow floated in the air like aimless moats, forgetting where they began, forgetting their purpose.
Winter dies a slow death, cascading snow drifts burying the visuals and memories of earth, lost far beneath the cold hard pack, lost to the sun.
Spring tries, day after day, month after month, all in vain to winter’s determination, lost to time and arctic air.
One day a squirrel scampers by the side of the old red barn, ears perked and alert to change, soon a soaring hawk narrows its vision, then loses sight.
Life goes on, into the next season, where spring is born, glorious spring peaks a tiny blossom up through the earth, up into light.
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