The air is chilly with a soft breeze that tickles my cheeks. It is cold, but not enough to penetrate my bones. The sky is blue; sometimes it’s a deep blue and sometimes it is diluted by melted clouds. The clouds the sun has not melted are sparse and white and light. The sun is shining but not burning, tapping a gentle tune as it trails my back.
Bare branches move occasionally on their barren trees or maybe I’m imaging it, it is hard to tell without their feather weight leaves.
There are small heaps of ice melting away in clusters, eager to disappear into tiny pools of water, just as tired as I am of how long they have stood still. The grass underneath the melted snow is a pale soggy yellow, almost alive but not quite.
The geese are laughing and the squirrels hopping between the trees, awake from their hibernation. The birds are chirping their melodious song and a woman with white hair long hair, sunglasses and no gloves walks past me, her face to the sun.
Winter has come and gone and life has remained behind in its wake.
…
Moyo Laditan 