The Sounds of Winter's Silence

A cold, bitter wind blows through the tree's bear branches. A hawk screeches in the distance. My meadow stands in the middle of a forest, dead with the weight of winter. The wind rustles the grass, bending it to it's will. Crisp leaves fall to the ground, a carpet of sorts on the dead forest floor. My feet crush the withered leaves, animals scatter at the unfamiliar noise. The unforgiving wind grabs and pulls my hair, whips it into my face. The sun shines brightly overhead, not a cloud in view to taint the perfect blue of the sky. Dead leaves rustle, birds fly, rodents scamper in the field, and I wait. I wait for stillness. I wait for the return of the deer. I wait for the warmth of the sun to warm my soul. And I wait for spring. Spring, the start of new life. Spring, the birth of new flowers. Spring, the birth of a new person. The birth of a cruel person turned nice.