Limp lifeless dull rusty. Leftovers, more like tree clutter than adornment.
Nevertheless, on a February day, when the sky’s gray, and everything around you feels dreary and quiet, the wind picks up a bit, and there’s a soft rustle.
Something like a hiss.
Like frozen crystals brushing by in an icy snow, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Or maybe the scraping a towhee makes when it’s tossing sticks and leaves under brush on a summer’s hunt.
A little softer than the crunch of fancy tissue we bunch around a present for somebody’s birthday.
The pin oaks shiver with the breeze, then they whisper to the wind.
photograph from january 18, 2020