The mist settles in comfortably after the rain, hovering dearly and close to the earth.
The intermittent grays, that drift into imprecise definition, mingle with the moisture and light, outlining the shape of trees and hills.

The brush at the edge of the forest creates curlicues and hearts that emerge out of the indistinct light; the light enhances their dark beauty.

Lines of grey and darkness all intermingling, fusing, losing definition. The bright white seed-speckled snow below boldly contrasts the shapes above.

The stillness spreads to the brown wet leaves plastered below my feet.

In the stillness, I hear the bubbling "cheer-i-ups" of goldfinches and the fluttering wingbeats of titmouse. These social birds continue to gather with their friends for the daily celebration of life. They continue to sing songs of gratitude for their harbor from the storms.

I feel gentle movement on my face. Movement that arrives in the moist air, blowing strongly enough to lift wisps of hair and to blow the weight of thought away, not strongly enough to move the limbs of the nearby trees. These bastions of rooted solidity do not budge. Their stillness appears remarkable in contrast to my moving eyes, my cyclical breath, and even to the blood that moves in my sinews. They have arrived at their very deep place of quiet. Their sap waits in their roots. They do not shun this time waiting.
Their bold limbs appear to be listening. In the shifting fog.

I follow their lead.

I will find stillness in this season; I will listen... and listen some more, trusting myself to what I hear within.