Winter is nearly upon us. It is the season of quiet. The riotous red-orange-gold of autumn has matured to a sepia palette, soon to shift again to white and gray. The cackle and chatter of the autumn leaves has now been stilled. The wind blows through empty branches, humming quietly to itself. Only the brooks still sing on their journey down the hillside, their songs not yet frozen. The leaves rest on the forest floor, awaiting their warm blanket of snow, under which they will dream their dreams of youth. Dreams that will seep slowly into the ground. The rising sap of spring will carry the dreams like the rising mists, nourishing the new leaves who will sing their song of awakening and hope. It is in this mystical forest that I have heard the Song Cycle of he Seasons. It is here that I will learn my song.