A Saturday in Late January

I have one hour to be alone. 

I go to the woods. 

I taste the stream, while moss and snow and stone lie in stillness, observing without judgment. For they too have tasted this place. I find snow on a downed tree and taste that too. It is better than I remember.  

Two hours later, I return with my children. 

Leo's yellow rain boots splash and sink into the silt and stream. 

"More!" He begs as I lift the cup of my palm to his open mouth.  "More!"

The water tastes like winter, like cold clouds. 

Amelia drinks until her hand stings. She has a cough so deep she sounds like a wild goose.

The children run and stumble over stones and bending flora before we throw sticks over the side of the footbridge and watch as they sink, stick, spin, and swim. 

We have one last slurp of the stream before we leave, feeling happy and weary.