On the darkest night of early winter
The wind beat at my back
Whipped at my hair
And threw me to the ground
It howled along to the screeching of the ravens’ calls.

Eyes of bright yellow glowed from behind dying trees
Covered in a dusting of freshly fallen snow
Still falling
The tracks behind me, disappearing.

The moon above revealed itself under dark clouds
Briefly lighting the holes between the trees
And lighting my way

Copper burned my tongue
From chapped lips
The harsh wind making its way into my throat
Turning tongue to sandpaper.

The moon, fat and round
Now hides behind wispy clouds
Teasing the world
Teasing me with its light and its absence.

Fingers, red and numb
Are stuffed deep into pockets
Cheeks are raw
Wind, lashing into my eye sockets
Is blinding

My pace, however, does not slow
And I hum a childhood song that tickles my chapped lips
To pass the time.

The ravens’ caws draw to an end
As the eyes behind the trees gently close
My frozen fingers still encased at my sides
My wind-burned flesh still red and raw
Full moon poke its head out from inside the clouds
My watery eyes, freezing, shut softly
Lips no longer make a sound.