The grass crunches on

this cold winter morning

and frost twinkles on 

every blade. The sun 

reflects off a thin layer 

of ice on the pond and

two crows in cacophony

at the top of a tree 

discuss the morning news.

Shell-like white fungi 

decorates a fallen branch,

soft moss covers the roots 

of a tree, and fiddlehead fern 

pokes through brown leaves.

Suddenly there is a flash

of red as a pileated 

woodpecker darts from 

one tree to another.

Tell me, how can one’s

heart not lift with this

lushness? Tell me, what

will you do to save this

for those not yet born?