the trees are finally naked, lining the icy streets as mere skeletons, providing an invisible shelter from the frigid seattle air. the rays of sunlight hit the pavement at 5 or so in an orange fury, anxious to sink beneath the surface of the sound. who knows if there's telling when we'll meet again. my skin longs for natural warmth the sun just cannot give me.

winter has brought her usual antics, imposing a sense of white noise i can't block out. it's time for movement despite the inclination to hibernate.