With the shortest day behind I study the unpromising landscape for signs of better. The trees stand bare, as dead as ever they can be except for death itself. Leaf litter sinks to mud. The Forest beasts slink in shelter, moving economically, wearing their thickest; carrying layered ice on the harshest days. People walk heads down; celebrations done, back to the grind mostly. Network television's annual film budget is gone.
Only the birds seem cheered. Mornings I hear them, yes, sometimes fighting, but sometimes singing out the territories they need to raise new young; when the sun comes again.
My brood is overflowing the nest. Fledged, though they don't all know yet. Myself I yearn to sail again; to lay trust in wind and wave and tide but not be bound by time.
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