The dart of movement along the sheet of snow caught his eye and distracted him from the words he held. Animal? Bird? No, of course it’s another oak leaf, one that forgot to book its flight to iced-over oblivion back in November.
So much has been smoothed and erased by these winter days and nights. Some of it will be remembered when Spring takes its muddy brush to the blank canvas, like it paints his memories, in muddy tones of gray and brown.
He sighs, his own echo to the wind’s tune, as he sits by the window. Another leaf runs across the edges of his consciousness, derailing this train of thought, for which he will be grateful until March finishes its work.
Then this leaf gets snared in the bramble bush, coalescing into a book of others, all pages of memories that refuse to blow away. He closes the blinds and draws the curtain, but the recollections still run and the winds still sigh.
And April, with its mash of rain, soil and memories yet-to-be, April is still two months away.
This one’s strictly free write, unedited, because nothing else of the thoughtful variety would come today and I’m feeling brave.