Muted are the sights and sounds of winter. March may bring storms and wind and other such fury from time to time, the proverbial lion making its dramatic entrance and roaring its arrival, but there are still a few weeks of winter left, weeks that may likely be gray and drab and colorless. There is beauty here too, though, something I’ve only recently discovered in trying to making peace with winter. The beauty of winter, for me, is in these quiet scenes – before or after a snowstorm, when the world is bracing itself for something, or creaking a sigh of relief beneath a pretty snowfall. There’s a hush that happens unlike the quiet of any other time of the year, buffered by the snow cover and aided by the hibernation or migration of noisier summer residents.
If you look closely here, you can see the buds of the Chinese dogwood. I’m hoping the worst of the cold temperatures are over, as a spell of sub-freeing temps may mean disaster for this spring’s crop of flowers. That’s always the risk at this time of the year, and after all this time I should have learned not to worry about that over which I have no control. The buds aren’t concerned, so why should I be?
