The Church of Winter Trees

It snowed steadily in the village yesterday. This morning, clouds conceal the sky as far as the eye can see, and there is the promise of more snow. The park is hushed, and we are the only ones out and about at such an early hour.

The silent trees along our woodland trail are baroque columns holding up the winter day, and perhaps the whole world. The interlaced branches over our heads are cathedral arches dusted with fresh snowfall, and the soaring light-filled spaces are beautiful to behold. Here then is our church of winter trees.

Every twig and branch in the woods is outlined in white, and the place is like a winter scene from one of the Narnia books.  Now and then, the wind dislodges snowflakes, and they fall to earth, glittering faintly in the murk and whispering softly as they come to rest on the roots and stones and hummocks along our way.

Taking the trail before us would be a fine thing, but the thought of marking the pristine snow with our footprints is troubling. There is no need to announce our presence, to publish a claim to these moments and their perfect trappings. We will simply stand here a while and watch as the light dances around us and the day unfolds. The trail can remain unmarked for a while longer.

 We will find another way through the woods.