February is a fickle month.
A hint of spring, a temptation in the air, and then this morning we wake to a dusting of snow. Geese call, moving from lake to lake somewhere out in the whiteness, disturbed perhaps by this sudden reminder of winters worst.
The snow is not deep, more like icing sugar on a birthday cake, sprinkled into all the dips and crevices. The sky retains a ghostly complexion, as if afraid it has scared away the sun with its cold and foolish insistence.
Silhouetted, etched and defined, the dark trees stand as silent witnesses. They will not speak of this, but they will remember, and the memories will be passed on the the saplings that sprout in the gutter or in the hedge ether, through the network of roots and fungi that runs deep in the soil and binds tree to tree. Crow crosses the blank canvas of sky, a punctuation mark on the morning.
By lunchtime the snow has returned, falling like spots in our vision, or noise specks flickering and interrupting the image in the window-screen. Everything seems to lack saturation; colours are faded, muted, insipid. Only the chaffinches whistle preserves its piercing quality, cutting loud and strong through the garden.
Early dusk is slow and creeping, what colour there is gently seeping and draining away. The sky takes on weak lemonade hue before slipping away to tarnishing silver.
