Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of the thawing winter leaves me aching, driving me mad from its incessant trickling. It streams down the jagged mountain side like a run-away tributary, seeping into the villages and oozing a steady flow after its people.
Drip, drip, drip.
As it courses through the veins of placid by-standers who’ve been numb for so long, it warms their frozen limbs like a spreading flame.
Drip, drip, drip.
With a wide yawn and an exaggerated, drawn out stretch, the mountains no longer breathe in the stagnant air. Instead they look out over their vast lands. If you listen closely as the wind shuffles the newly thawed lawns, hear it whisper and rejoice with the new telling of freedom.
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