The winter months are upon us,
As we sit and stare out the window at the snow covered ground,
We are thankful for the blazing fire set before us,
And we watch a rabbit hopping by on the snow as if it weighed a pound,
And we wonder if it too has a snug little den were it laughs at the snow and sleet,
Yellow daffodils and buttercups and goldenrod and marigolds,
White daises and foxgloves,
And purple pansies,
And the whole forest will be ablaze with color,
Robins and bluebirds and cardinals and thrushes will outdo themselves and run out of breath twittering and chirping,
And the brook will melt into a laughing, tumbling mass of ripples being dashed against the rock and then bouncing back again and trickling into hollows and form little pools of Water where minnows dash and dodge playing hid-and-seek with the sun beams.
And then the summer will come and the brook’s merry laugh will tone down to a lazy Hum, and all the green trees will turn a pleasant yellow green.
And gnats will play their tunes, such as ‘How Merry it is to Fly All Day’.
Autumn will soon be here and the brook will become cross and disagreeable.
And the trees will put on scarves of red and yellow and brown, a few scarves will blow away on the now-rough breeze.
And soon that breeze will become an ever-present gail sent by Rough Brother North Wind.
And we come back to this day and Jack Frost will nip our noses and the rabbit will hop again and we shall stay close to the fire.