The sun's rays shining dimly through the thick fog, reflect ominously, creating an eeriness that envelopes the valley.
Beyond the horizon, some thousand miles away, blow the winds of change. In the stillness of the valley, the wonderment of it all seeps into the minds of the inhabitants. Small children, as though with a knowing, place fingers lightly on the fragile crystals, watching them crumble like dust to the ground below. Mothers and fathers capture the images in their Kodaks, Fujis, and other devices, to render the moment immortal. Grandmothers and grandfathers find themselves in anxious moments, awaiting the arrival of the winds of change; as has been before, and comes again.
The hoarfrost hearlds in a new day. Perhaps it is the change of season that this way comes; or as the eeriness of it all implies; something more. As the inky shadow of night overtakes the sky, with the setting of the sun of the first day, the hoarfrost remains unmoved.
The fog, relentless in its steadfast stay, wraps its fingers of mist about every living thing, as though breath hanging in the dense air. Rolling across the outstretched fields, which slumber under the blanket of snow, the fog whisps its way into the nooks and crannies of the city, seeking safety from that which comes upon the heels of the hoarfrost. The winds of change.
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As I sat listening to the stories, handed down from century to century, the legend of the hoarfrost was among them. It is said when the hoarfrost arrives and makes the land its home, the winds of change will soon follow. No one knows what the winds may bring, it may be for good, or ill. But, it is not of the making of man, but God's own will. May it be better days for us all.
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