A cold surrounds as the air rushes past, bringing its miserable chill toward the light and warmth of the fire.
The smoke of half wet willow wood wills the air and rises slowly to distant heavens, far above the sorrows of the world below.
The dark draws longer and longer still in the somber and rain soaked world where there resides only silence between winds and drops of rain.
The crackling of the fire drowned out, as though singing to an ocean without an echo, but only an expanse both uncaring and unresponding.
A prompt response.