Sandy Ward Bell

There is a fluffy layer of snow draping the tree in front of my house. A red bird is resting on  a branch, wanting to sing, knowing no one will hear. The sun's dim rays are hiding behind a stormy, angry cloud. The road needs to be treated with salt. No sounds. No movement. All is still.

I put the photo back on top of the pile sitting on my desk. The mound of pictures is from last February's blast.

My hands are in the praying position.