Winter

I

It was a cold winter day. So cold, my ears and hands felt like falling off my body. I waited on the bridge where a swan once had opened up his white-feathered wings, showing off his beauty to me, wooing me with his little water ballet, but didn't see a trace of him. On the frozen lake, a dead body of a big bird half buried in ice with red flesh exposed in the air. The sky was grey; the trees were grey; the city was grey. The snow flakes were fighting a gusty swirling air, suspended and struggling, their celestial dreams broken: some of them were melted before they could reach the ground, and those that got to the ground were tramped by careless people. Could things, pure and true, ever exist or realize in life? 

II

In Barton Park, waterfalls froze into sculptures on the dam. People were "sailing" on the ice. A majestic eagle with white head and white tail flew into my view bearing striking force and elegance. In the biting winds, I stopped still, had my eyes fixed on him, till I could not follow.

Carrying the weight of floating ice, the river slowed down his pace, murmuring a heavier tune. In silence, trees fell into sleep. But in their dreams, they were waiting, they were anticipating. They were anticipating a new burst of life, perhaps more exuberant, more passionate and more splendid...

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