Descent

The night is sharp. The traffic has finally died down on Bowles and the clouds are descending like a vast movement of arrows from the mountains in the west. I could almost hear them whistling down on us during our last walk. The stars have gone, taken refuge, and as the night turns reflected orange, the first taste of snowflakes burnt my tongue and lips, reddening my cheeks and stinging my scalp. There is no wind but even Duncan turned his face into the night, closing his eyes against the lowering sky and breathing in the flavor and scent of the north wind.

Something is coming. Tomorrow will be white and cold and we'll leave fresh tracks when we walk.