Crows

Winter is bleak, the sunlight dimmed by thick milky clouds. Periods of daylight are brief, a blink of the celestial eyelid. Life huddles together, pulling inward, curling around itself, shrunken by a frightful, loveless cold.

When we find ourselves at year’s end, do we ask ourselves, have we sucked each day of all its sweetness, have we found enough moments worthy of our personal scrapbooks? Well, perhaps, we can never find enough such moments.

The cold winter winds and the hoarseness of the gathering crows, however, bring within earshot the death rattle of another year. But, no matter what ripe fruits have already been plucked, another, younger, eager year waits beyond the threshold, brimming with possibilities that we cannot foresee.