Forage | 6

A chiseled, black horizon was backlit by the breaking dawn. Each breath, caught by six degrees was frozen midair, then gone, vanishing puffs trailing. An overnight shaking of frost faceted every blade and branch, every fence post, every fallen log (Jack Frost never choosy about where his artwork’s hung).

This is where I find blue-berried juniper, golden boxelder samaras, and wild hops. Where my largest basket is laughingly small, where I resort to carrying by armloads, instead. Foraging winter. Bringing home evidence of a coming celebration…