The sun out here is so bright.
Around the snaking slippery banks.
Of this creek.

It's still winter.
But the snow is melting into peculiar puddles.
That line the slushy snow.

There's always reserved ravens.
And a couple of crows.
Looming ominously over the skeletal remains of the glen by the creek.

Stillness.
Dried out carcasses.
Of recycled animals.
Brown and black with dirt.

It's quiet.
Out here.
In the boonies.

With the shrill cold wind blowing through leave-less trees.