Winter has fallen.
The waters flow chill and slow. Ice crusts the surface, collecting in mirror folds, a tinkling of crystalline bells across the still night. Soon it will harden, cold and solid, brittle and unmoved. Beautiful and deadly is the winter snow. Blindingly driven, stunningly sucking the warmth from bones, biting winds shocking into silence eyes and lungs that might otherwise see and speak. Once friendly summer skies cleared of cloud now expose us to a sun devoid of warmth, merely opening to the endless, relentlessness cold of space. Time stills, each moment sharpened and crisp with the pains of stabbing cold. Every second in desperate longing for a hint of warmth. Such brilliant, terrible beauty cannot long be looked upon with eager eye, the transient delicacy of snowflake, the awe of a thousand knife points of ice, balance sliding away beneath the glistening, pristine snow. Huddle, small apekind, around the glow of fires, beneath the wooden sky, within the skins of better beasts. This is the dying time, the pruning time, when Khali walks the frozen Earth with grim determination, wolf howling through the storm, crack of icicles shattering, muffled silence of the bitter night, plucking our fate strings until we hum to the tune of life, and death.
Sleep, sleep forever sleep, lost in fitful dreams of Spring.