Soft white flakes dance in the air like thousands of tiny Tinkerbell’s, swirling up, down, and side-to-side with any breeze or movement.
The leafless skeleton of a cherry tree, yet to show any blossoms, stood rigid at the corner of the barn.
Snow awakens a child-like sense of wonder, stoking the adult imagination. It brings you back to memories of building snow forts with siblings on a snow day and heading inside afterward for grilled cheese, chicken noodle soup, and in my sister’s and my case, the thousandth screening of The Wind in the Willows.
The outer walls of the barn were a faded and chipped pink; the original coat of vibrant red paint had long since decayed. The white trim hardly held as well, the sunbaked boards naked and exposed.
The hammering of a woodpecker high in a cedar cracked the silence again. We kept moving.
I must have passed at least 7 or 8 waterfalls as I made my way up, some bigger than others. I had to stop about every 30 yards to take pictures to try and capture as much of the beauty that I was experiencing.
Nonetheless, for some reason, the concept of fire and subsequent death bringing about new life with the turn of two seasons has set my mind ablaze (see what I did there?).