In which I bury the lede.
This veil-thin night, the year lays down its life, and the dead draw breath again to wait with us. An original poem-spell-prayer.
One last winter offering. Mostly photos; some words that are not only about the passing of a season.
I was walking up a field this morning, a few miles from home. I’m not sure whose field it is, actually; it must be private...