A round.

So swift the wind in its cold caress, so warm the trees in their shielding embrace. The rain finds its way down from naked branches above as each footfall is muffled by silt laden mud.

The special day.

In rest and sleep it comes to be that the world will change despite one’s dreams, and rising from the fog of wish and hope comes what always was: another day to dawn and a chance which comes into reach.

Soon the season. [Archived]

The feel of it sits upon the air, that time where all is still and quiet. Where reflection can be done and the to and fro of that which seems in every moment to be of importance, stops and huddles in its place. The wood is being collected, the meat all stored and salted and the final harvest will soon be reaped as we wait for it to come.

Autumn.

It’s funny how a wind so full of rain and snow can be so dry. A wind that seems to almost freeze all that it touches.

A traveling trader’s ritual. [Archive visit]

It is so hot on these city streets. The sun bears down from far above with all its strength, as if it wishes to scorch and burn this mass of rock and folk muddled through each other. The spaces so confining by walls, taverns, gates and warehouses. And the open square made closed with an ever slowly moving mass of people, each oblivious to the awkward movements of another.