Every single pine needle, every grain of sand at the beach, every fog in the dark woods, every blade of grass in the field – has its time to rage. Its time to cry. Its time to laugh. Every insect whose flapping wings hum (without possessing body heat of its own) understands the shifting temperatures of the dear, the eagle, the bear. As an old tree falls over from the roots and the waterfall drops upside down behind the knot-covered pine branch, in the dark woods of the bitter cold winter solstice the mistletoe growing on a giant evergreen oak is different just in that respect, and the sun shines back from its brilliant new green leaves and the flames of repentance are burning.