![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Apk_W5AB4tbRjZWAjTWdGaY1DXyZ5Yte1qt2A9WzVfZBuzkp7_-PhXenUx3M9z2nQGmgPQmjq5c85LiGJO2UbEa9Tnm8fLPTtWXLdXSXSDO7JTOT4K7_VzAq7FZ5KHP3FdZL/s320/winter-2246648_1920.jpg)
This music—when the alder and maple drop their icy lace handkerchiefs on the soft mud beneath Sol's melting gaze—songs made of streams and cast-off shells, over then under frozen ledges layered and fractured as mica.
This music sings me into silence. No sound but my slow inhale, exhale—I hold still, even when a pebble, frost-heaving down an embankment, splashes, startling me. It's Spring, the creek is playing, tumbling, singing its thawing. So am I.