They leave traces of a damp forest here. Wet wood litter, old leaf rot, saturated sponge of dripping moss beneath cold feet that wish they were feeling warmth in front of a raging fire.
Opening the post next to the vase, I am out in blue twittering light, gazing at a web of bare black branches lined with pink shadows, and I suddenly come to a tree with catkins. Festive. Filling up the spaces. Colouring them in.