We walked along Spring Creek just now. The cold winter air feels so nice our our faces. I notice, most of all, the quiet. A big snow storm will come in a few days, and it’s as if all the creatures know; they’ve burrowed away under logs and hide deep in the woods along the creek. We walk in a stillness that then makes the rushing creek so wonderfully loud in the canyon made by a rising cliff to the right and the expanse of forest on the left. The colors blend together in the muted tones of winter; there’s nothing to see but bare branches above and water at our feet. So we walk and listen to the rushing water, to the crunch of old sticks and dried leaves beneath our shoes, and to the softness of our own voices talking about our lives.
Winter diminishes what I see, only to enhance what I hear and feel.
We arrive to our warm car just as the freezing temperature gets to us. The cold darkness arrives, and we crank the heat, play our music, warm our hands. I love what winter forces in me.