This is contentment. Sitting in the sun on a high grassy hill, back against a tree. I stare across mountains and down to the river. The only sounds are of the wind filling the beech trees with a dry chiming, winding its way through pine needles, and the River, constantly churning. I’m on the lookout for signs of spring. The sun is bright in the sky, the air is warm. The grass is green in places and the birds and insects are out in more energy.

But the trees, the most sure indicator, remain barren. There is no blush of green buds and new growth on the mountains. The only green is the deep soft green of white pines, their paint brush stroke of needles splashed across the blue sky.

Spring is not yet here, so say the trees, and this is but a temporary reprieve. I drink up the sun while I can until my entire body glows with it. I will hold it within me, an ember of warmth against the cold to come.


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