As I sit here, safe inside my shell of glass, wood, and insulation, staring out at the bushes, and the street, and the snow, and the trees, and the cars, I think of how the year has gone. The snow, just starting to melt, the limbs of the old, strong hedge are now empty of leaves. I remember the summertime, around the 4th of July: The grass strong and green, the bushes full and healthy, with small, blackish berries that are so dry they crumble if squished; my brother causing an evacuation of the porch with his smoke-bombs, birds filling the trees for a moment, and then leaving just as quickly as they came. Some remain behind, and it is a wonder to me how they maintain their flocks, rather than getting separated beyond the point of return. Yet somehow they manage. But now, in the depths of winter, the ground is covered in a sparkling white blanket, a thing of beauty, yet it is this shining coat that chokes out all the life of summer, the world is sleeping, and since the worst of the winter has passed, it is just beginning to stir.