The forest bows to the wind, weighted down by the snow clinging to the branches. The wind sounds like complaining voices coming from the trees. Singing about their aching backs they sway and bend like giant creatures in the night.
The snow catches any light, reflecting it, warding off the darkness. Everything is covered. Between the trees the shapes of rocks and bushes seem sinister, as if they are creatures in disguise waiting for you to pass.
The dim light makes it hard to walk. The snow eliminates shapes and shadows. You can’t tell if there’s a rock, root or flat ground where you’re setting down your foot so you walk slowly, trying to decide if you’re still on the path or not. You are the first to walk it since the snow fell and it’s almost impossible to recognize the trail you’ve walked many times before.
The dark, gray sky has taken on a sickly pink hue from the light of civilization that perverts the night sky. Distant lights of houses and street lights between the trees seem like the will o’ the wisps of old, ready to lure you astray.
There’s something primal about the sleeping forest, waiting for the light of spring. Many times before it has waited, and many times yet it will. It’s the rhythm of the land.
You emerge from the trees into the harsh, open area where the trees have been cut down. The lights coming from your home seem a little bit more distant, a little colder. For a moment loneliness grips your soul before you shake off the mood of the forest and regain the confidence in your step. Once you’re inside in the warmth you’ve almost forgotten how it felt.
The trees are still out there, covered in snow, complaining in whispered voices about the burden they carry.
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