The blogs lie quiet in the night. The willows gasp down by the waters at the thing which time’s immemorial stream bears solemnly away. A tinkle filters through the dreaming soul, a transformation subtly drains the sky of distance, and the stars stand hard, unreal, hostile.
It is seen in the woman’s pupil, in the night-sky cosmos of her eye: the crowd of stars and her determination. She rises and her hair blots out large portions of the stars. It spreads from point to point, forming a new constellation that means winter. She awaits the dawn as the sky recovers the ambiguity of atmosphere. The plants all sigh.
A pine tree creaks under the winter of the stars. A cloud intrudes, and afterward an overcast. The snow begins, and then a new surrounding closeness. She is dark upon it, save her face and hands. She is black upon the grey of a winter-wombing world.
A frozen forest greets the dawn–the tangled sort, a blue-grey purple in the undergrowth, the blacker trees, and all the crooked branches softened by the snowfall. She finds a road and rides a horse and wears a sword and lives for shedding blood. It is a swift, a deadly thing she does . . . when all the blogs are silent in the night, a scrannel piteous residue.