A confession. I like winter.
I like bare tree branches, stark, dark and complex against the grey, or with the silver light from moon and street light shining through them. I like the angled, tangled complexity of their reach and strength that gets hidden by summer’s gaudier dress.
I like how snow picks out the details, showing the normal to be entirely new.
I like the sound of sparrows, hidden in an evergreen shrub, shouting to each other “Stay in! Stay close! Something’s coming! It’s here! It’s here!”
These are things absent from summer. I like winter.