Our Earth is still, or so it seems. Down below, our village is quiet. Even the hens tiptoe around the garden with very little to say. A buzzard flies overhead, silent, graceful and with intent. Even the seagulls have retreated back to the crevices in the cliffs as though knowing, something is about to happen.
The sky is dull and heavy with its clouds rolled into one. The trees around our home for waifs and strays stand in yoga pose. Rooted to the ground, their branches stretch upwards, searching for light.
It’s winter, time is slow. Snow is on the way.