Before February Runs Out Of Time by Maureen Brandon Bold
In woods filled with February a biting wind blows dead leaves
into an icy stream, only the oak keeping
ragged remnants to the bitter end. Graceful
branches traced on an opal sky, naked save those wrapped in ivy, sometimes leaning to the left and the right, creaking as the
Silhouettes stark and gaunt.
Birch. Beech. Rowan. In February woods there`s
nothing to fear.
Even when nightdark falls
and the silence is tangible, broken only by the wind moaning. To one side
a full moon rises.
To the other side a solitary stag, coming as a surprise and no surprise. Forest dweller meets forest visitor. Eyes gentle. Inquisitive. Hesitant. And in that moment that
fleeting moment on the very edge of those
nightdark woods and before February runs out of time you hold the world in the
palm of your hands.
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