For a long time I saw winter as a time of blank, cold quiet. It was a pause between songs and the space between floorboards and waking up at 4AM for no reason at all. It was the music that your bones can only play when they are tired and hesitant and perplexed. It was the beautiful pattern of snow under streetlights.
I never once questioned how the streetlights could stand the cold, much less each other.
Winter feels like a bellicose creature, with its bright eyes peering out from the woods as its tracks are covered. It is grace and agility and a caretaker of forgotten magic. It is overwrought love scraping against the underside of the ice, trying to break the frozen surface and engulf the fire’s warmth because it doesn’t know any better.