With a rough and violent push, bitter winds burn through the thick layer of overlaying clouds and speeds down towards the harsh and cold solid ground that stands beneath a thick layer of hard packed snow.

I sit here behind the pane of glass, frosted now by the hail and the ice, cold to touch. With every breath of wind the glass quivers and whimpers, but shudders to a stop once more. But then, like an angry tiger in captivation, the wind hurtles against the bars of the cage furiously, seeking to bring down the barrier that blocks its way.

I shiver slightly as victorious tendrils of wind slip in, and wrap my hands tightly around a warm mug of hot chocolate. It's not the instant kind, but real, thick, foamy hot chocolate with little white melted bits of marshnellow floating here and there.

There is something intoxicating about the bitter wind that wages war with the hard and solid ground-- slamming down over and over again, winding through trees and shrubs that shiver nakedly in the cold. Yet no matter how hard the wind rages, no matter how many small particles of snow fly up in the sky, twirling and somersaulting in the air, the ground always wins. The particles of flying snow will settle back down. But the wind is infamous for its stubborness and pride-- it could never accept defeat. It strikes again and again at the unmoving ground, which remains calm and proud throughout.

The clouds of snow that billow up in the air gives me the feeling that I'm sitting four feet away from the battle of the bulge, the decisive battle in WWII. The bombs that the Germans hurl ceaselessly on the stolid Americans, impact on the hard-packed ice and sends tiny shards of ice spinning through the air.

I can hear them plink against the battered glass pane. I can see them glare menacingly at me from my vantage point. I can feel their anger, their desire to come crashing through the glass, to shatter the tired defence, and burst in with delirious fervour.

But I feel safe here, shielded, encased in this strong bubble. Strong as the lignin that makes a xylem strong, strong as diamonds that glitter, strong enough to protect me against the vicious wind. The fire giggles and dances merrily as I reach forward to add another log in the fire, glowing proudly in the gloom.

I set my steaming mug down on the table, and wander over to the frosted window. I rest my forehead on the cold glass, inches from the battlefield, shivering as the sting of the cold travels through me.

It's a crazy winter out there. The wind is bombarding the snow with vicious snarls. It pounds down angrily repeatedly, then rises up screeching and shrieking when the ground camly resists. Within the next second it's back again, confident and strong, certain that this time, it will be able to bring the ground down.

But I know, as I stand with my moist breath condensing on the glass, that all battles come to an end.

It has been hours since the war began. At its eleventh hour, the wind is beginning to sense its defeat. It is beginning to realise that the ground cannot be shaken, that the ground cannot be lifted up into the sky like a flying carpet.

You cannot thrust a sword into the water and expect the water to die.

Finally, with a defeated howl, the wind retreats, skulking back into the shadows, far up in the clouds, seeking to soothe its hurts.

As it retreats, with shame, it looses its hold on the particles of snow. They come tumbling down, tiredly, wearily, but relieved.

As the snow settles on the cold winter ground, I notice something.

Amid the harsh conditions, somewhere in a thick and hard pile of ice, there is a bud. It is small, and fragile in the cold. But it is strong. It is calmly and resolutely sticking out, pink against the white background. A tiny droplet of water glistens on the end of a closed petal, shimmering slightly.

It stands as tall as its small stalk can, proudly but humbly, turns to peer at me, and waves.

Above, the dark clouds rumble angrily, and the ice shivers disgustedly-- at this litte bud that has defeated them both.