In the hedges, regardless of the wind howl and the punchy rain, daffodils and primrose hold their petals.
We go down by the river and slide in mud where the banks overhang.
Dog is in the water, swimming after sticks.
Here is a fallen tree. Here are wood anemones, thriving in shade, with stems so slender the flower heads seem to float. Here is Dog, leaping in a wake of squawks and there goes pheasant, ruffled.
From the river we follow the path, steeply up, holding whips of sapling for balance. From here the river turns are observed, only a few shades lighter than the earth that flanks it.
Between the trees we walk and talk of which will fall next and where will be best to forge that river.
From this day, the light draws out, winter must decline: regardless of the wind howl and the punchy rain.