Surely there is nobility in these early days of winter. Bare trees reach heavenward, their trunks a model of verticality. Nothing is wasted or feigned.

My eyes seek the green of ground covers and firs, the splash of morning light on a tall oak. They look for color in December’s pale grays and blues. They find something else, something leaden and true, what winter reveals, which is the essence of things.

It’s a new month, winter’s first. I feel its power in my bones.