(FP’ed 3:09 AM EDT, Sunday. October 14, 2007. – promoted by exmearden)
The snow crunches underfoot, and it yields to a soft underlayment, glistening with mystery as the moon parlays its reflected sheen on the infinite sparkling frosty desert.
An aroma of universal home wafts through the swaying branches of pine, of spruce and of arborvitae. Pungent, yet gentle, it speaks to timelessness, of shelter, of contemplation. Those trees, in their conversations, tell the stories of the wind, of the light and shadow, and of all those who pass overhead and underneath the regal limbs.
This night, the deepening blueblack of the scrim reveals brilliant gems in their courses.
The moon conducts the symphony, and the celestial choir hums the chorus. Listen, ears pricked, and feel the song of songs. The trees sway in rhythm. Tapping bark tympanics applaud the performance. The earth turns in time with the music to follow the melody.
Peering through the ferny pines are the night watchers. Those with wings ruffle their rachis and tuck themselves into the tempo. Paws shuffle and legs dance with the harmonic pulsing. Fur rises and then settles in warm comforting envelopment of its bearer.
The lone observer encumbered by clothes to protect a vulnerable fur-less skin, gazes unseeing, but with listening ears, hearing feet, fingertips alive and perceiving the deep cold that doesn’t come from the air. Hands curled and thrust deep in flannel-lined pockets, face turned to the moon, lost in the music, the pattern, the all, time wasn’t, and here was everywhere and nowhere.
Far to go, having far come, here at last.
Here at last.