The weather breaks between cold blasts and rain squalls. The lingering autumn leaves have been swept away from bare-bones branches, floating into coves or pummeled by feckless tides before sinking to their compostory.

A fire burns deep within me, remnants of summer’s heat, but I am so tired. As I return to our floating home rowing the skiff, I try to rouse myself but bones are cold and muscles ache, over stretched from exertions of the day, climbing the nearby hills.

Rain moves from pounding to drizzles and back as the water is black with rings of cold circles emanating to all corners of the harbor.

Turning my face upwards to meet the sky, I sing out, loud into the din of wind and water. The disembodied voice falls flat and immediate, no edges at all as it drops, still and silenced, thrown down into a watery grave. I long for the vivid echoes of the dry hills. But this mossy place cannot reverberate, her lichens hold my voice and her rooty tendrils pull the life from my mouth.  Lips seal against the harsh chapping winds of winter.  

I bow my head and work at the oars, listening to the prickle and hiss of the rain drops, chastised at my outburst into the elements. I recognize time for silence, rebuilding. The return to the womb. The time to renourish all that is within. Quiet, snuggling into downy places, with the animals, I hunker. 

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