When the first chill of winter settles like a mist upon my shoulders, I cannot remain indoors for fear of missing their creation. Born the children of a hushed wind and a slow-rocking lake, they are shaped by the ice in the shallows, the silent swirl of heaven’s frequent dustings.
The stillness soothes the spirit.
But harmony rarely lasts. Soon wind and waves storm across the lake, shattering the silence.
Walls of water roll beneath foundations, sucking up sand and ice and heaving them towards shore. The pounding of the once majestic peaks cuts through me, like conflict battering the heart. And then one day, the fickle face of a winter sun decides to linger and the mountains give way to spring. And I cannot remain indoors for the thrill of creating footprints in the sand, smelling the freshness of the forest, witnessing the first green leaf of life.