12/05/2018 - 10:14AM
The bones in my hands ache from the cold, and the deep breaths of cold air burn my throat and lungs. So I have come to rest on this rocky hill in a sunlit grove of young trees to collect a bit of the winter sun. It helps the joints to move a little easier, and quells the burning. The spirit of the world is stern, and the earth is often a hard place. It seems more often given to the heat of violence than to stagnant peace. I have spent enough time with it to understand why men have fled from it, built fences in the world and in their minds to keep the wild at bay. A body warmed by the hearth and the home is more comfortable than cold bones. But I am not convinced that in our dream-led flight we have not lost more than we have gained.