It is coming. I can feel it in my skin and in my bones. The chill wind brings its tidings, a cruel messenger from the North. The sun betrays us all, giving false hope when it shines through the clear sky. But alas, these rays hold no warmth and only shed light on the bare trees that creak from Winter's burden, and the stale, frosted ground that crunches under your feet. It is a wasteland; everything has stopped but us. They are smart, holing up until it is pleasant and welcoming outside once again. I am cold, all the time, and it has only just begun. It is coming.
This is an excerpt from one of the handful of stories I have going, writing down scenes as they come to me. This particular one is the thoughts of an island-dwelling, ocean-sailing lady who has never seen Winter's many details and effects. It seemed appropriate for the weather happening right now.
(photo collected from pinterest)
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