Dave Bonta

A cloud-free morning, the sun through the trees just bright enough to fool my body into feeling warm. A mourning dove’s song sounds reassuring: There. There. There.

Clear and cold, with a bitter wind to remind me it’s actually March. I watch the sun through the corner of my eye as it climbs through the ridgetop trees.

A fresh inch of wet snow, clinging to every twig—the forest refoliated in white. But already the roof has begun to drip.