Winter, March, 2015

I look through a translucent netting of gently falling snow. Tiny flakes seem to be suspended in the air. Beyond, a puzzle of hawthorn tips and spikes, Are embellished with Layer upon layer, Of meticulously placed flakes. Mounds of gorgeous White snow adorns each insignificant twig. In this monochrome warren of knots and crosses, A very small black and white bird Breaks the quiet solitude. It bobs and weaves, Then flies off, To join its’ friends at the top off the old twisted apple. I continue to marvel at the amount of snow The tiny twigs can support. Each branch is perfectly decorated. Suddenly, a strong gust obliterates everything. Just for a second, there is only white. Then the hawthorn reappears, Naked. And the snow scuttles, swirls, dances.