< It moves with a deep, rolling grace, then dissolves into the mist, leaving torn earth behind.
He watches until it is gone.
The wind changes. Warmer now.
He lifts his collar against the damp air, turns from the coming day, and begins the slow walk north.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
It is too early in April for pastel blooms.
The woods this evening smell of wet earth rising. What remains of the snow pulls back like a dying tide, exposing black mud, dead leaves, and the >
< they grow.”
The Hare studies the pouch, then him. Something shifts in those pale, empty eyes. It nods once.
“Sleep well, Old Winter.”
“Run fast, Spring-bringer. Be fruitful.”
He tips his hat as the Hare launches itself over the creek. >
Dresses for his little friends and a sweater for him.
It was his mother’s, actually, and it still smells softly of her perfume. It is for those nights when his far-away heart longs for home.