Most often it is after a stormy flurry of chaos and activity. Like the sun that comes to shine sparkling rainbow lights through the iced limbs of the burdened trees. Like the wind that calms to a sigh, running her fingers over the blanketed fields.
The white that devours all colour, dancing over the horizon and hanging all chilled thoughts lazily over the blue wall.
Fortunately, within the warmed walls of dressed comfort, we look out. We notice. Not that the noticing matters, as if majesty might exist without audience.
For quiet is what comes next. A chapter in the book of never-endings. Written by the hand that stirred the pot. A creator of no fictional endings or seven gun salutes. A hand that swiftly announces and softly descends. With finger, might raise the orchestra, or fall gently over a lip for hush.
