Nature doesn't die when the snow falls like hushed ash. It sleeps. All that remains, the stems and stalks and seed clusters that hint of sprouts and spring and green expanses. They shiver in the cold. They blow in the wind. They quiver in the snow. They bend in the ice. But they do not break. Sentinels of rebirth await warmth to reawaken. The very earth cries out her ancient song beneat the snow. Hear her in the quiet of nature's slumbered stillness. It's a silent song that sounds like mourning, but celebrates the warming inherent in the cold. All things are round. All things flow. Even the ice.
