Hail fell, and some slushy snow, all at sea level in April. Thunder shook the roof. The cat went wild, eyes wide with fear. A chill settled in the air, windows rattling, lightning lighting the gray day bright. The clock trembled, time unspooling into the room.
The words are always in flux, changing form and meaning. It is the nature of the ghost to fit the pits and narrows of the world, cleaving to shape, owing what it knows to form and the flavor of the day. The seasons, once ridden loyal now slip and slide about the mouth and trickle down the page. Long ago the word won the day, it wove itself into the shimmer of heaven and the terror of hell. Now we live in the confusion between the two, our buoyant flesh so heavy with the ingress of the spirit.
Spring is here, in bud and blossom. Whatever the trending of this mild climate, the violence of the weather does little to shift the press of the scene. The fires spark and smolder, the leery snow melts away. I begin again, somewhere in the middle. The huddled dusk and the working of locks. The rough transit of culture along this tide of clipped speech and hostile stranger, whatever the weather, wherever the seasons meet.
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