In winter’s mist, leaves drift like fragments of forgotten whispers, touching the earth in silence. It is a fleeting sign that winter has brushed the city’s edge, like a breath held before release.
Winter doesn't arrive silently. The sharp, cold air carries a faint scent of fire, each breath a reminder of warmth lost and the year's quiet ending. Shadows of unseen birds lift their voices, filling gaps left by the season’s retreat, their eyes fixed on a half-seen forest blurred by distance and fog.
Do you hear it? The quiet magic I once overlooked now vibrates in the season’s stillness—forms scattered and dazzling as they converge and retreat. The distant forest stirs like a living, shifting chorus of leaves and branches, pulsing and swaying. It beckons, calling souls like mine to move, to step beyond the ordinary and into the flow, where stillness is merely a pause before the next breath, the next step forward.