Snow has retreated from the valley. The stark contrasts of winter have softened into sepia tones – dormant grass bent by deer, dry weeds reaching skyward, dark bark of patient trees, muddy ground. A palette of browns painted by the waiting season.
The sun now lingers long enough for me to roll my wheelchair through the forest path after my last meeting of the day. Deer have pruned every green thing within reach, leaving behind a geometry of twigs and cropped clover. Above their browse line, birds can still find their dinners – juniper berries blue as twilight, waxy holly fruit, seeds and drowsy insects tucked in bark. Their feathers flash red and blue against the brown backdrop, their songs mixing with the sharp percussion of woodpecker beaks.
As the sun drops toward the valley’s western rim, light filters through the lattice of bare branches. For one breath, the tired world remembers something lost – bare stick and dry blade turn to gold, lifeless weeds glow from within, and a halo of summer light blooms in the thicket. Brief as a chickadee’s call, yet perfect in its passing.