The Thaw's First Breath

The iron earth begins to yield, a slow softening of the frost's white grip. Under the eaves, the first bright bead of melt-water hesitates, then falls.

Dormant roots stir in the dark, remembering the weight of sunlight and the hum of bees that have not yet shaken the sleep from their wings.

A sudden flare of green, sharp as a needle, pierces the grey skin of the world. It does not ask for permission, it only knows the pull of the sky.

The wind carries the scent of damp bark and the quiet promise of the uncurling leaf. Everything is poised, a breath held before the wild, inevitable rush.