In Winter

In Winter

Our summer walks are flower strewn, fragrant with nicotiana and rose.  The varied repertoire of the mockingbird floats on the breeze all around us and we walk slowly, woman and dog, pacing our steps to the heat of the day.  It is too easy to be dazzled by the sheer lavishness of this season, too easy to be distracted by the colour and the warmth, too easy to miss the magic. 

  But here in heart of grey winter, the familiar pathway crackles with skeletal leaves. Woodsmoke drifts from the chimneys like charcoal drawings that move and change with each gust of wind.  My hands are gloved, a knitted cowl nearly covers my face and Edward’s has fluffed out his fur like a late season dandelion, impervious to the cold.  Our steps as brisk as the air, we gaze upwards as a flock of geese stitches its way through a violet cloud.  We stop where we are,  listening to the holy sound, the flapping of their wings sweeter than harp song, a gift to those who stand still under the stained glass sky of winter. 

And we know we are not alone.  There are tracks next to ours where others have walked.  Paw pad and claw print unknown to my eye, normally hidden underneath green but revealed to us now in the bareness of winter.  Raccoon and Coyote.  Hawk and Owl.  Grey Rabbit.  Red Fox.  Black Crow.  All my fellow parishioners beneath the wild gothic spires of poplar and oak.  I feel their bright eyes follow me home.

Later, when Edward has taken up his place at the foot of my bed and a navy blue darkness envelops the house, the voices of these creatures will carry in the cold night air,  slipping beneath my window, granting me admission to a communion of souls at once mysterious and aeonian, reminding me, once again, that all the world is a cathedral.

I love winter.

Painting above by Carol Collette