There’s a mystery about wintertime woods that isn’t there at any other time. Or, maybe it is there, but it’s hidden by leaves and warmth and the lushness of life.
Trees in winter lift bare, unadorned branches, their intricate shapes stark against a gray sky. The air is crisp and clean, the leaves underfoot are damp and heavy. A crow calls from somewhere down in the hollow and a scurry in the bushes betrays the hiding place of a rabbit.
Quietness blankets the woods. The wisdom of nature and the secrets of rest and renewal are hidden here. It’s an honest place and a mysterious place. But, I’m an intruder. I’ve just come to borrow some of the peace and beauty. I’ll leave it as I found it, but I’ll take the memory of the wintertime woods with me.
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