A fine icing
Of the wood, grows whiter
Less than a mile away the train horn blares long cool blasts, a warning to the country commuters of small back roads of it’s impending approach. A wet winter rain continues to trickle over the county already slogged heavily with enough moisture to float a thousand and one armadas. The furnace rattles to life struggling to spew warm air into the tree house. Beyond the wood the sky is a silvery and steely canvas. No signs of life on this wonted winter’s day. Mirroring ponds and streams take over the deep carpet of ochre leaves on the terrace of the low lying woodland, dimpled by persistent rivulets of precipitation. The trees like sentinels stand towering and still – there is no movement from any breeze. It is vert quiet. The furnace hums to activity disturbing a silence that otherwise would have stretched out for an eon. As the days lengthen the winter weather lingers.