The path winds its way around the lapping edge, sometimes passing through solid rock. No one wants to know you on the last day of the year, when the snow lies thick. Only old friends are welcome to eat by the fire. So you travel to the end of the lake. Yesterday you brushed past death, galloping faster this time, although your head lay in the snow.
Birds are few.
Black against the white. They sit in leafless trees or follow sheep as they graze. Returning, the full moon dogs our path, fingering shadowed rock, creating pools of light. Susan Hawthorne, all rights reserved. Susan Hawthorne is a poet, novelist, anthologist and circus performer.