In the winter, all over the South where I grew up, the grass is dead and the trees are bare and gray.

And the remnants of autumn is all brown and fully dead.

But out here, though cold and rainy, a strange beauty blooms through the frost and occasional snow.

The yellow of summer is now replaced with brilliant green grass,

and mosses have erupted from their slumber and cling to the dormant branches and limbs of the oaks and firs.

And under the oaks are rings of yellow and orange chanterelles pushing through the damp earth.

And then out on the horizons to the east and west and north, glorious mountains.

All bundled in snow and gleaming under the low sun.

It’s not the winter wonderland of song, but it is a wonderful land all the same.

I enjoy the rhythm of winter up here, away from a big city and all that distracts us from creation.

This is California too, may it never change.