During the last forty days,
no one witnessed or understood that something changed.
Winter presents itself like a traveler,
like a typical bird following the sky’s tour.
Forty rainy suns over the mountains.
And then light, gloved fingers of light,
the winter night is dark like a dreaming hand,
and then with the dawn, the justice
of trees, a world of trees,
and the wars of trees in the deep, tenacious forest,
ringlike, never-ending, dressed
in immense perfume.
– Pablo Neruda, from Ceremonial Songs