Northern Cardinal

He stopped mid-flight, or perhaps he never moved at all—the cold freezes movements just as it freezes the branches. All around him, winter has left its mark in white threads, as if the frost had traced each twig with a fine brush. The fallen leaves still cling on, refusing to yield to autumn. And he, a speck of embers in this blue silence, turns his head. Not to flee. To see who is watching. It is a moment stolen from January, when red becomes a statement against the gray.