Wet conifers smoke in the bright winter sun. The snow dampened layers of bark expand and crackle in the heat of the new day. Rivulets of cold water lend a gentle melody. Soon the moisture will leave the air, but for a brief span of time every sound is close to the ear. Even the ruffle of black and white magpies shifting their feathers branches above is an intimate whisper.
An inch of heavy snow plasters the undergrowth to the turf, but will depart before the morning ends.
I was trying to get all environmental with this one, but it’s clear even if I do I need a plot of sorts. I’m pushing ideas rather than flowing through them. In even this minor reflection of my life, its clear I don’t know where I am going.
Word count: 135