It covers the bones of winter. Memory releases earlier worlds innocent of endings. Sound gathers on horizon's spine. Chords of sunlight sing the morning in and the skin of earth is beautiful. As the traveller moon floats into view nights are long and longer than the long wind sweeping over prairies and wind has no history.
Voices hum in the wind and the old do nothing.
They lean upwards laying secrets bare to the moon to the snow falling in alphabets of silence and the small mercies of the stars.