Winter in the woods...

There is something about the aroma of wood smoke wafting on cold morning air that makes me feel...alive. The air, so cold that it glues your nostrils shut, stings my cheeks like a thousand tiny needle pricks. In the distance, the obnoxious squawking of crows pierces the quiet. The sun, still attempting its rise over the distant, snow-dusted mountain, begins its illumination nonetheless. Winter morning in the woods. The sky is alive with orange, purple and pink and a dozen other colors whose names I do not know. One lone star remains in the morning sky.

It will be a clear day today after a day and night of fierce wind and pelting rain. Everything is wet. The leaves, fallen months ago, are matted all about like faded, multicolored carpet. The trees are stark silhouettes against the morning sky, with branches revealing the nakedness of the solstice. In the distance, I hear a lone dog bark but, just that quickly, it is quiet again except for the tap, tap, tap of last night's rain still dripping from the cabin's roof.

There is something strangely peaceful about winter. But I also find winter to be a lonely, almost depressing time. Everything is dormant...nature in its long, eerie slumber.

Spring is like the brightly colored, newborn's nursery. Summer has the sights and sounds of a rowdy carnival. Autumn resembles a beautiful tapestry. Winter is more like the church cemetery. Not a scary place, but a place of reflection with a twinge of loss. The year will be over in a few days. Seems like just yesterday we were ringing in the new year.

Tomorrow we will load up the Jeep and head back home, leaving the little log cabin that has been our home for the last three days. But what if we just stayed?...