Illuminated header derived from the Lismore Crozier, circa 1100.
Winter fought a rear-guard action last night, but I know it is in retreat.
The first, most secret signs are here: in the surprise of sunrise in a pewter dawn a full hour earlier than before, in the sudden chatter of little birds in a cedar hedge, in the slow seep of snowbank ichor across the sidewalk.
One more ides until the equinox.
I sometimes think that winter invades my writing -- with sharp-edged, brittle words, with the finality of things lost never to return.
Winter nights are too white and the days too dark. In winter, I count my dead.
And I write as a pallid prisoner scratching crude runes on the cold stone of my dungeon walls.
Do the pull and suck of tides and seasons affect your style? The tone and tint of your prose?