The snow collects on her hood, her shoulders, and slowly soaks into the fabric of the cloak, weighing her down. She steps carefully in the half-light, pushing her boots down into the deep powder and finding solid ground before shifting her weight forward. The bag is over her shoulder leaving her hands free in case she falls.
When the world wears a blanket of snow; when all is silent; when the natural world finally has our attention: these are the times magic still works. Out here amongst the frosted trees, she will work hers before returning to feed the fire.
No comments:
Post a Comment