Sarah Zettel

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.

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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.