There is no need to aspire for the light when the stars from heaven are held in her arms with a riddled display of little, frail flowers. It is a wintry still frame for nothing outside my window stirs. Although, the neighbor's cattle have surely come and gone, leaving in his lower field a quilt work through the snow. Beyond that, the pastures are as slick as skulls to the tree line and the ridge. Beyond that, the sky is overcast and made timeless without a sun.
Nothing is in motion, but scattered, solitary souls among the hills.
On Nights Like This. The snow, the mountains, the trees, whiskers on a dead man's face . . . The wind scours white fields of ground up glass, whips the ridges, makes bone branches moan . . . Bitter burning winter fire hardens a bundled body to stone and freezes the whiskers on my face . . . I will remember.