The first word would have to be cold, alive among the dormancy, like my home is in the heavens atop the little hill. It feels like a journey shot. Like I am below in the subconscious mind and I must travel to higher ground to reach consciousness.
A crunch along the icy leaves makes me stop to listen. Quiet with a piercing cool breeze but I'm too far from the trees to hear it shaking the leaves. I can feel the wind across my cheeks though and the ends of my fingertips begin to numb from the cold, especially the finger resting upon the shutter button, waiting in ready for the heart to see. The narrow deer path takes me through the tall grasses and I'm grabbed by the stickers that cross my pant legs. I can see the sun is out for a brief second only by the shadows on the house. The sky is almost completely filled with puffy rain bearing clouds. I think of snow. Where has the snow gone, if it is not falling in Illinois, where does it lay?
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