Mackerel sky looming overhead, a sweeping mass of vapor roving Tennessee hills still barren of leaf or bud. The air is cool, unlike the arctic blast of winter wrath; a cling of contempt toward all who yearn for the sun.
Up close, a branch with tiny flags of pink defiance, waving good riddance to colder months; they bring a start of hope and smile for warmer days yet to come.
Light is fading this early eve, but on they wave – a stark image of beauty and grace against the brown acres of naked trees. The darkening sky threatens a week of driving rain, but these emboldened buds know they will prevail to herald the arrival of Spring.
schujahn [ ˈshü · jän ] 