The cold wind blows its somber air through the bending reeds. Chill hints of mocking winter chuckled mercilessly over the quiet planes. The Howling would come; no mellow death this year, but a raging storm was promised in the shuddering trees, the worried birds, the aching bones of old Mrs. Smith.
And I loved it. Somehow, all its terror made it beautiful, this gathering of portents, this melancholy of disaster—I was in love with the grey skies. Somewhere in the stream, the sound of a fish snatching at something like food. The water rippled, but the scaled monster was nowhere in sight.
Soon, the creek would freeze, and however or wherever such creatures lived out the winter’s deadly months—ah, such mysteries. I too, I knew, would hide in the warmth of a home covered in ice. There was food enough, thank God, and heat. It would be a time for stories, for dreams, for frights and laughter.
For now, a longing. Yes, Winter is the season of longing too. All seasons long for something. Winter’s longing filled my breast, and my exhalations, the white plumes streaming from my nose, speak of the infection. Come, nature, show me your rage. Wild snows, fierce winds, howling darkness, I will speak of your terrors, but they will hear, in the very timber of my voice, the love I have for your chilling song.
Psst! Hey kid, wanna buy a book?
Tale Told 