Here on the footpath, amongst the dead and rotting leaves long ago abandoned by their ligneous parents, there are only soft-edged shadows and the gentle weight of black on black on blacker still. I keep my hands in my pockets to ward off the chill, my shoulders high to hide my ears, my back hunched as though I’m carrying a burden somehow heavier than all the winter worry - the awkward silhouette of the unprepared, the retreating, the left and the leaving. There is much to be said, stories to be told and truths to be sworn to, but this February air only coaxes my words out from my lungs like cigarette smoke, dancing tantalizingly real for the briefest of moments before seeping off to hide low amidst the greedy roots when they really ought to be sung high and hopeful in the reaching limbs. There is frost on the ground and in my blood, crawling forth serpintine slow from the very deepest dark, and I swear to you I can feel it cruelly claiming my bowed and brittle bones.