The sun crawls up the distant treeline. Its reflection flickers across an icy waterway, becoming a constant flame as it breaches the treetops. The frozen surface mirrors its light with an exceptional capability. A light breeze pulls at naked branches, as stillness holds the remainder.
The lack of movement, especially in the water on these cold mornings, presents a still-frame image of the landscape. I sit, wishing for the capability to breathe life into my surroundings. The sun’s warmth washes over my face with a soft-pawing. Its steady ascent on the horizon is the only noticeable movement; increasingly illuminating the watershed as the earth turns its face to warm its rough skin.
The birds rouse from their slumber, calling to each other as if the entire genus had overslept. The undergrowth and lower branches begin to fill with feathery darts, flashing with bursts of color. The din of nature’s alarm begins to rise, as the symphony of tinny percussions erupts from many beaks. The most original music I have ever heard.