The giants are dancing at daybreak.
Spire-tall fir trees bow before an invincible windstorm, their solid wood trunks flexing at the gale’s command.
Whipping winter branches are choreographed by coercion.
The rooted dancers bend low and spring erect, waving with irresistable reverence.
Icy bits of snow whirl through the frigid air like dervishes, abandoned to their swoops and spirals.
Swinging on a precarious tether, wind-chimes jingle in ecstasy: "Joy, joy, joy!”
Pearly clouds, limned by dawn with gold, hang like art in the high blue sky.
In crescendo our white-hot star appears above the horizon, blinding any defiant human eye. Its fundamental light decrees another day of wild risk.
Oh, Mystery. Oh, glory.