Caught Thought

To me it conjures images of the last days of winter. A fine scattering of nearly frozen water lightens the air and casts parhelic circles toward the sky, yet is not so bold to call itself mist. Icy rivulets cut channels in the snow while pine cones play pachinko among the pebbles and stones. The first sparrow resolutely heralds the spring and calls to the sun, guiding it through the weakening chill to alight on the first defiant crocuses.