The Seine at Bennecourt, Winter – Claude Monet, 1893
It was December – a bright frozen day in the early morning.*
Snowflakes settle into a white field that slowly turns to gold as the sun rises above the horizon. Lost to each other, no longer free.
Trees blackened by winter’s bite reach up like charred spider webs. Searching for spring or perhaps waiting for the birds to return. Arms empty and twisted, they wait for the wind to give voice to pained moans.
Off in the distance where the pine trees live, soft pings of icicle wind chimes travel through the forest and into the field. Those long fallen snowflakes listen, wishing they could fly again.
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* Eudora Welty, from A Worn Path.
Special Note: The opening quote was a writing prompt from my writer’s group last week. It’s amazing what can come of a single quotation and 15 minutes of writing time.
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c.b.w. 2015
C.B. Wentworth 