Mystical Mornings.

Serene and still. The cold December misty morning, holding back the sun rays from kissing the earth. I walked through the diamond air to the gathering of oaks and ashes.

The ghosts of Autumn playing among the silent, sleeping trees.

The crows speak of mystical tales while the diamonds of dew cling to the old and new.

Rosehip of Snow White's lips, the only vivid treasure for this misty Winter dream.