Haibun for mid-winter

For the dverse prompt.

In this cold heart of winter nothing is red except the robin’s breast. White the bladed grass rimed with frost, heron-grey the heavy sky and black the tree boughs. But look beneath the crisp-layered leaves, and seeds are already shooting, so frail, pale as underbellies, yet spring colours in the making.

Beneath a sky of flying
flakes jays and rootling pigs
plant oak forests .

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