A Christmas Day Walk: Sounds of Winter

My favorite holiday for walking, not a soul in sight, only birds, squirrels and the usual wildlife moving about the dry frosty acreages.  Tis Christmas, third day into the onset of winter, my Beagles and I are off for a walk.  We head out through the fifty-five acre park, just across the street from our condo.  A wind of 3 miles per, noticeably only in the tops of trees, we take short notice as we walk, briskly and inquisitively, on the path which winds adjacent the wetlands. Suddenly, I notice a change in the winds, and then the Beagles take note, one quick gust then another, chilling yet, pleasing to me, in a very seasonal way.

Many trees are bare and stark, they groan and moan, creak and squeak, as we pass.  The Oaks still holding to their leaves, rustling gently, were rendering that unmistakable crisp crinkling sound, reminiscent of Easter cellophane being crushed by eager young hands.  No longer can I clearly, distinctly hear the tap, tip, tap, tip and tap again of Beagles’ toes on cold frosty pavement, Nature has covered sounds of we three passing, with her own sweet seasonal choirs.

Abruptly, from behind us, beside us, a deep groan, from another source, the wetlands, where the tall grasses grow, an ice-cap formed in the arctic overnight temperatures.  The winds bear down upon its surface thick with tall grasses, as it moves the grasses and ice, create a series of moans, groans, cracking’s and whispers so melodic and melancholy, I am overwhelmed with the song of the ice-cap in motion.  Now the Weeping Willows chime in with a squeak, higher pitched than other trees yet, not shrill at all, followed by a deep moaning sway of stronger, larger limbs. Oh, how I so love the Willows, they do inspire regardless of the season, they have a message for the grounded and inspiration for the poetic thinker alike.

I want to linger in this natural place, soaking in Natures’ symphonic sounds, sounds she created from the breath of winter, as if orchestrated just for me.  A distant flag flaps vigorously in a wayward gust, the sounds of cloth flapping and snapping in the wind, like crisp linens drying on the line. 

Winter, I do love thee, snow, or frost, or bright sunshine, there is an affection for winter, and that which is uncovered, exposed to the appreciative eye, the architecture of what lies beneath the lush foliage of Spring and summer.  Tis Christmas, third day into the onset of winter, Mother Natures’ way of sending a pause, leaving winter in charge of chilling major areas of the Northern hemisphere,  changing the face of familiar scenes, scents and sounds from of life once in bloom, now at rest. 

© 2011 J. Reid-English. All Rights Reserved.