“A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I have been feeling this wind, and listening. Beads of rain move sideways, and when the calm comes, the birds softly sing. Affixed to the sky, they dream just as I, and a common ground is found in this. The stumped altar glued to mud, indebted to old roots, telling the tale of cycles.. a Phoenix remembering its name and the awakening of Dragons. Fantasy is thin in my misty home, and ushers in ghosts in my imaginations.