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The last of the leaves linger on branches that twist and gnarl, vulnerable and exposed, extending skyward. The wind moans and whistles through their sinews and tendons. The air is icy, my breath crystallized as swirls of mist twirl like smoke in front of me.
It’s not quite as cold as yesterday’s subzero. Cars passing spray water from spinning wheels but I’m glad I wore extra layers.
A light dust of snow is falling, sparkling as I lift my eyes and blink. It’s dusk. I hear the crunch of ice from my boots. A day of cleaning and a late cup of coffee have brought with it contentment. I take in the beauty.
Winter’s darkening silver sky will soon toss down another blanket—branches adorned, glistening against rays of evening light. More snow is predicted tonight.
We will wake to a land robed in white, each thread of the garment glowing as the rising sun delivers healing in its rays. His signs, His wonders establish His Name among us—the risen Son.
Emmanuel.

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