Winter’s Song

The landscape speaks this morning, with many voices.
The trees are bells, each twig encased in ice.
The car tires spin and spit in their ABS bliss, ingenuity meeting recklessness.
The snow hushes, the slush shushes.
Geese squawk just handspans above my head, indignantly looking for the land amidst the wet.
My boots crunch and slurp, in syncopation with the slick surface.
The wind sighs of melt and freeze, both at once.
My wet pants urge me in to the warmth.
As I pry open the door to my building, wind crescendoing in its attempt to transform itself into inside air, I remember:
“Momma,” my son murmured to me last night while cuddling in bed after an exhausting day, “You’re my best of all.”
And the world stills.

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