The boundary between seasons is always shrouded in mist, but nevertheless it seems clear now that autumn is burned out.

That great blaze of last-gasp beauty has been replaced by cold cold nights in which only the strongest stars out-compete the hooded moon.

Soon the thing will turn again. It will be wet hereabouts, but above us will turn to white.

Here, where cities and towns have thinned out only to strands, there is no hiding place from the coming of winter. It is not fooled by fire or distracted by screen. I fear it, knowing I must bear it. There is no other way.

Of course, beauty is not banished. Joy is not banished. Life does not end; rather the wildness that remains is still willd. It sleeps under surface of wood and glen, waiting.

Because we too are wild, we are not immune from winter. All we have is this; to seek meaning within it.

We look deep into darkness seeking colour and shape.

We strain for sound in silence.