Winter Morning

 

The wind is wild this morning—wilder than usual, untethered. The trees, stripped down to their essential selves, their bare limbs reaching, grasping at nothing, everything, swaying in some ancient choreography beneath that last pale thread of moon still clinging to the dissolving dark. I'm watching the leaves—the stubborn few that refused to let go until now—finally surrender, spinning away from their nearly-naked perches, released into the rushing air like whispered confessions, like things we meant to say but kept holding onto, holding onto, until the wind made the choice for us.

And these clouds—god, these clouds—rolling past like some theatrical curtain, so dark they're almost bruised, dramatic in a way that feels both ridiculous and utterly true, the way grief feels, the way longing feels. The sky opens up behind them, impossibly crisp, impossibly wide—a stage swept clean, empty, expectant. Waiting for whatever comes next. For the light to break. For the performance to begin again. For us to step out into it, vulnerable and visible, ready or not.