Winter brings to light the inherent hope of every leafless branch. How they reach! We think of trees and their ancient forms as the tufts of leafy hair and nests of birds we know in springtime, but their bones are always reaching. Those fingers lie hidden beneath the flowers, the leaves, the pinecones, all year long. Then, suddenly, they are naked, made visible and raw by cold wind and early sunsets. How they stretch and lean and grasp at the fading light, all their lives, and we only see it when they’re most desperate for it, when it’s least present. And how patient are they in their desperation! They wait out winter in trust, over and over again. They know the sun will return. They know, but they creak after him still, as though life itself were at stake. As though winter was a spell to be broken, and they the only sorcerers.