The Thaw First Breath

The ice on the creek ribs is translucent, a glass lung holding a frozen gasp. Beneath, the water hums a low, dark note, polishing stones into secrets.

The air tastes of iron and damp pine, a sharp awakening for the dormant roots. The sun, a pale coin dropped in gray wool, offers heat without the promise of light.

Birch bark peels like old parchment, scattering white prayers across the crust. Silence is not an absence here, but a weight pressing the world toward the mud.

The first green is a rumor in the soil, a needle-sharp intent piercing the cold. We wait for the crack, the sudden spill, the unruly green riot to begin.