Lucid Dreaming: Snowfall

They'll tell you that a snowy forest sleeps, but I know better: 

The trees sigh, stretching their arms in a quiet yawn like a child taking a brief break from a long settled nap. 

A restless stir, their branches bow with the wind, then tuck back in. 

The trees don't sleep, they dream. 

Snowflakes dance down with a whisper, telling secrets where they land, and a sparkling, gossiping forest grows. 

You can hear them, turn and listen. 

Wind blows in with a startling strum, wishing only to be acknowledged, 

and in its drift, long grasses tangle in quiet laughter. 

The sun sings high notes, bouncing between snowflakes 

while grounded boulders and fallen logs hold low notes, growing deeper with each new layer of snow. 

At the edge of the forest and lifting from the depths, the lake joins in this harmonious hum, 

as a skim of ice forms in resonant timbre.

No, this snowy forest does not sleep. 

It sighs, dreams, whispers, laughs, hums, and sings.

Turn, listen.