The tall oak trees stand strong and powerful around the old churchyard.
The season is winter and there are no leaves on the trees.
Cold touches everything, especially the sheltering rooks in their nests atop
the massive oaks.
These birds have nested here for years, ever since the Brontë sisters lived
and died at Howarth.
I hear the rooks cry and I know that it is the same cry Anne, Emily and Charlotte
heard so long ago.