January

A coyote howls while the dark moon hides behind the shadows of the earth. Singing the song of the lonesome nights and the January winds. Kneeling over bones and curled up underground, we wait. There is no respite here. We wait. We wait for Imbolc to bring us hope. We wait while the trees scream above us. We are liminal creatures now, wandering between the end and the beginning. Our hearts feel tired and our skin is stretched over bodies too worn. Yet January has nothing more to give than what is hard. And cold. And unwavering. So, we wait.

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