Light.

The air was good today.

It was light in weight, softly lit, rich and smooth.

I headed up to the High Country, looking for a stream.

The woods were untrodden, the snow cleanly folded.

The brook was mostly frozen, rising occasionally through dark holes to play crystal bells,

Some hollow and deep, some tinkling with the motion of the unfrozen ice.

Trees listened intently through their scars, aligned like patrons in a balcony, straining to hear the quiet scene,

As the light leans westward, leaving the pastel lichen to wait

…for Spring.