Writing

It’s quiet today. And cold. The mist seems to wrap around everything and dampen the sound it makes. Trees stand as dark sentinels to the park. I imagine, as I walk through them, that during the night they’ve been talking, strategizing like military generals, against the coming day. In the pale dawn light, my breath huffs out in clouds of water drops that cling again to my face as I walk forward. Further on now, and those majestic giants are replaced with shrubs and bushes - foot soldiers to the oak general. The mist has collected in their low twigs and drips as my feet tap by on the frozen asphalt.