In the dark, the path is lit up glowing with a dust of snow.  It is winter.  Time to retreat.  Time for the height of summer to remain as a triumph tower, setting a beginning point for the sprig.

We move more slowly, the old dog and I, sniffing at frozen leavings, wandering in flurries of thought, just following the path.  I am drawn by the horizon and wonder about the view around the bend at the top of teh hill.

White with winter, city lights hold steadfast against the wind white darkness that thwarts the dawn.

The grass persists, holding rooted entwined hands with Gaia.  This is me today.  Holding hands with Her, chattering and giggling, two little school girls, oblivious to the wind white winter.