The Winter
The winter day, as if to mourn the death of summer, was gray and sullen. The trees, once gay in their multicolored autumn coats, stood barren, as grotesque, twisted forms, stark against the ashen sky, and the last flowers of summer hung their heads in limp resignation, the frost having long since stolen their wills to live. Brown, brittle mats, that cracked and crunched with every step, replaced the lush green carpets of grass that lead to every house. Everything was so dull, so lifeless; no souls ventured beyond the warm security of their abodes; no creature stirred in the cold, vacant streets. Then quietly, almost imperceptibly, snowflakes, large and fluffy like feathery down, began floating earthward, transforming the bleak and barren landscape and the mood. As the snowfall intensified, the once harsh landscape became cloaked in a thick mantle of pure white snow. Like a delicate velvety fabric, it draped the grotesque, angular limbs of the trees, converting them into grace!
ful, arching projections, like the arms of a model extended in a perpetual pose, awaiting a nonexistent photographer. Only the stately Fir tree had resisted the change in seasons. Standing tall and erect, its sturdy branches bristled with
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