A Silence of Snow

The birch trees stand like shattered porcelain, their thin veins drawn against the gray expanse. A solitary crow stitches the horizon line, pulling the dark threads of the afternoon taut.

Beneath the frozen crust of the shallow pond, slow silver bubbles measure out the hours. There is a patience in the suspended silt, a quiet breathing in the dormant roots below.

Even the wind has lost its brittle voice, leaving only the soft accumulation of white. We watch the slow erasure of the world's sharp edges, learning the quiet language of the snowfall.