On the edge, wind plays with the stream. Its spatter freezing onto trees, who look weak, vulnerable, bent by the extra weight.
On the edge, where the stream freezes, falling is continual, falling is a cycle. Roots are lost.
On the edge, exposed, the sun isn’t always warm. It’s fickle, flirting with the cold, funneled winds. Relentless, always cycling.
On the edge, spring holds no promise. Pockets of ice remain. Trees are cautious, curving into an array of uniqueness.
On the edge, strength takes new forms, evolves into a balance. Depth is an art never grown in easy soil.