The Solitude of the Changing Season
The stream was cold and flowed silently between its banks. The grass had turned the color of straw, and the light filtering through the trees was thin and devoid of warmth. It was the time of year when nature holds its breath. You could sense winter approaching in the way the air tasted of wet stone and decaying leaves.
The last of the birds had flown south, and their absence left the woods feeling expansive and empty. It was a soothing kind of emptiness—a solitude that a man craves when he wishes to be alone, the kind of quiet that resonates in the bones.
The water mirrored a sky that was shifting to the color of iron. Soon, ice would cover the edges of the bank and eventually still the water completely. But for now, it was peaceful—a clean, cold peace. There was nothing left to do but watch as the light faded across the tall grass.