Light snow is forecast for fifteen hundred hours skeins of geese unravel in the sky and right on cue, so light you might not know, snow dusts your head and shoulders.
Spiky trees extend their yearning gestures above your head; they reach but do not touch, their buds are speaking beyond your register; you do not hear their polyvalent anthems.
The stones have laid themselves beneath your feet, so many shades of brown and blue and ochre, textures of water, granite, leafy satin mere grey and grit as you walk on regardless.
At every step, the birth and death of angels, tiny atomies, flickering so intensely you neither see nor hear, but you may sense outside your power to sense them.
Kathleen McPhilemy ‘The word became flesh and pitched its tent among us.’ – John 1: 14 .