The Winter War
Tom Oglund
On the ground the leaves lay. Gone from verdant green to a fragrant orange, or a pale yellow. Lost from the grasps of the tree, twirling in flight through the wind, a cool breeze. The leaves pile on top of each other, in the dirt. Some rot, and go a hideous black, for all type of matter and insects to feast themselves upon. While others cling on to life, blown through the dark October sky, through children’s scrunching hands, or scraping feet. Through freezing ponds, or bustling streets. The trees feel desperate too, knowing what is coming. Like someone losing their hair, the leaves break off, one by one, the warmth and protection and energy gradually disappear. They are near naked in the Autumn. The grass sway and sing in a line, directed by the wind, a song of sorrow, of fright, of prayer. The rain begins to patter down, seeping through the iced soil. From first sight this is a plentiful supply of water, but no. The factories are continuously pumping out filthy clouds, and the rain is poison. Like men on a battlefield, all nature sits there, and pray that the shells do not hit them, seeing smaller plants slowly shrivel up around them. November. The time of day is unintelligible. There is no sunlight, nor moonlight. Just dreary clouds and dark skies. Nothing is cheerful, and nothing is warm. The spirit is cold. The birds do not come out to sing or tweet. The butterflies do not come out to dance or spread the growth of nature. The very atmosphere of the month is glum. The pond is frozen solid now, and boys and girls come from their schools and eagerly skate along it, as the ducks and swans watch jealously from their shelters. It does not seem fair, how the animals can rest throughout the whole of winter, while the nature must endure every step of the way, draining every ounce of courage and fight from them, the tension is high. Small snowflakes begin to slowly fall down onto the ground, gently resting there. As the days go on, the snowflakes begin to tumble in more frequent amounts, feathered crystals which fall, landing upon the hardened floor. Nature begins to be concealed by the falling flakes and the start of December seems unmissable- bit by bit the ground is coated, and everything goes black. December. The wind howls, swirling in the icy gale. Plants and bushes coated in glimmering snow twinkle in the reflection of the rapidly disappearing sun. The snow rests upon park benches as if they were cushions, covering the rich wood in a perfect white. The trees remain tall, as skeletons whose tissue lies beneath the snow. Bony fingers reach out as if to grasp the air, and whispers are heard in the wind. Nature is frozen still, no sunlight, water droplets frozen on their shivering stems, and constantly weighed down by the snow. The only benefit of all this is the plentiful amount of water from underneath the ground, although almost icy cold. But even then, roots from trees struggle to burrow through the frigid ground, which has been hardened by winter. Winter truly seems to be an enemy of nature. All that can be done is to wait for everything to be over. Wait for the cold to stop.
Spring! What joy, the birds are tweeting, the leaves are growing intomagnificent lush green. The yawns of animals awaking from their long slumber. The ducks float happily around the pond, and this time it
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