Quietly as I can, I turn off all the lights in the kitchen, leaving only the candle’s flame to light the way, giddy and erratic.  I turn the chair around, slowly and methodically, to face out the window.  I breathe in the state of the world – the sleeping boys, the snoring dog, the rising world.

For a moment, the only important thing to do is to see the branches.

Taller than the window allows me to see, the trees hold last night’s snow.  The heaviness cannot defy their slender frames.  Subtle at first, the branches move.  The stiller I become, the more I realize that they are in constant movement.  I recognize the persistent winds that blow across the top of our house on a still morning.

How still do you have to become to notice the branches move?
How dark does it have to become to witness its shape in the morning light?

Continue reading