des Cygnes

The temperature drops forty degrees in an afternoon, as a super wolf blood moon prepares its entrance. You sit trapped in a prison of your own cold limbs, turned inert by the ice, the music in my ears speak of hundred degree days as I stare frozen into the wall. The windows are attempts at best, a rush of wintery air sweeps in from between their cracks. She says how is it this year? and you reply only that you are alive, and that'll do. Shouldn't your people have figured out how to endure winter, by now?

They speak of your work like it's real and you wonder at the prospect. See the paths of others light up and arrange themselves on the map. The full moon lingers in the shadow of the earth, simmering in a deep orange glow. Stars peer out in the darkness. I hoist my backpack back on my shoulders, take a deep breath.

Carry on trudging through the forest, hoping the path may appear in my wake.