The landscape sleeps for now under a coverlet of white. In spring, sheets of pale green grass rippled under the wind's breath with the grace of silk fluttering in a storm. Summer brought a fullness and a bounty as the stalks of grass bent with the weight of their seeds. Now a spray of grass, a sere echo of itself, bows lower and lower against the unforgiving wind. Golden leaves as light as paper curl like ribbon and dance in the winter sunlight, pretty and macabre and evocative and nostalgic all at once. The dead leaves cast longer shadows on the snow, dancing a shivering, ephemeral duet. With a turn of the world, the shadows are overtaken by others. With a turn of the season, the leaves will finally fall entirely, broken and buried by ice and wind and snow. And as the world waits for the days to lengthen and warm, damp breezes to return, the grass beneath prepares to rise...and the dance of the seasons begins again.
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