This is the in between time, neither winter nor spring.
It is the dance of the seasons, a feral waltz across the land.
This morning winter returns as dawn reveals cold mists and the sharp touch of hoar.
Birdsong is muted and one senses them huddling in briar and thorn brakes.
Yet the touch is fickle and once the sun is risen winter will melt away to be replaced with the balm of spring.
Here, now, all is in flux.
Photo courtesy of the author.
(via The Good Men Project)