It was just a quick trip north, but I got my taste of winter.
The crisp, clean quality of the air, the myriad shades of brown and gray, and the aching bareness of the silhouetted branches against an overcast sky. Tiny meandering snowflakes, tenacious, marcescent birch leaves, and sunsets all the more incandescent in contrast to the barren, rutted fields.
The aching nostalgia in the moment the sun descends below the horizon, plunging the landscape into a dark and bitter gray. The whole color palette feels native to my soul, and breathes life into my body. Hope of spring crouches, dormant, just underneath the frozen surface. Pussy willows and snowdrops are the first, subtle harbingers.
I brought a small rock back in my pocket, where I can feel its scratchy profile, bits of Wissahickon schist clinging to the edges and glinting with quiet mystery.