Mother, it's snowing!

I still exist out there. My syncopated footsteps, the interludes between near and far; away and towards. My pilgrimage amidst the heavenly bodies recorded by the historian with no memory. Lucky me! To the hill from which I howl, the hill from which you howled back. In wind and spirit; beyond the trees

Mind and muscle melted; a rhythmic yearning, a body remembering equilibrium. I strip everything but my porous skin. Make friends with the fire and the kettle whose whistle I await. The sensation of warmness percolating, kissing the residue of late December.