The woods atop the south hill look bleached in the early morning light. The ground, powdered with snow, is littered with fallen trunks and limbs. Some seasons are hard.
Nevertheless, the atmosphere shimmers with the freshness of a new day, just emerging from the night and brimming with countless possibilities. Beneath the snow, the earth hides quickening seeds.
I slowly work my way to the hill’s crest, pausing to listen to the silence, to watch a small bird flutter among the trees’ subtly budding twigs. Beneath my boots damp leaves press into the earth.
The snow sparkles on the logs and branches like a blessing as I step so carefully between them. I count it a privilege to be here. This, this is sacred ground.