007: When Winter Comes
The leaves are brittle. They crackle in the breeze, bay and bistre. The snow softens the footsteps. Your footsteps. You pause between the trees, the mammoths of nature, and feel the cold air settle in your lungs and crawl up your nose to stick the tiny hairs together. You have to breathe through your mouth.
It is quiet.
The only green you see is the dull grass around the stems, mostly hidden in yellow strings, sun-deprived, so tired they hang limp to the ground. It has been a long summer, and an even longer autumn. It has been drawn out till the world tired, and now the world rests.
You feel the world exhale, slowly but surely, around you. It settles into the slow pace of winter-sleep.
You wander on, though 'wander' might not be the right word. You know where you are going, but it is muscle memory. It is neither purposeful nor aimless. You simply move forward, one foot in front of another, and feel the softness under your feet. Your breath makes small clouds in the air.
Written by: Katrine H., with thanks to Lorna Fergusson for her online writing retreat 21.03.2020
It is quiet.
The only green you see is the dull grass around the stems, mostly hidden in yellow strings, sun-deprived, so tired they hang limp to the ground. It has been a long summer, and an even longer autumn. It has been drawn out till the world tired, and now the world rests.
You feel the world exhale, slowly but surely, around you. It settles into the slow pace of winter-sleep.
You wander on, though 'wander' might not be the right word. You know where you are going, but it is muscle memory. It is neither purposeful nor aimless. You simply move forward, one foot in front of another, and feel the softness under your feet. Your breath makes small clouds in the air.
Written by: Katrine H., with thanks to Lorna Fergusson for her online writing retreat 21.03.2020
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