When (First published in tinfoildresses, Winter Issue, February 5, 2010.)
it began is lost like the first flake of the ice age. But it was and is all about time. Remember that. The arrow birds were gone and long landed surely. The ears of the sun drooped lowest; the hound with just a dream of scent knowing a cold trail was warm somewhere, beginnings in the endings.
Yes, the time when grouse drowsed deep in snow, when sky muted the woods except for the occasional crack of heartwood. Under the full moon by the frozen lake you could watch your breath drift almost to the other side, and you’d forget to breathe. I’m sure someone said; “It takes your breath away.”
That was when, and where was here, in this land of fires and furs. The mystics have claimed and filled it with mythical creatures, but it was real then, real as a hole in the chinking, real as the depth of stores, real as the time that stretched before . . .
They knew festival, knew that it was time to regroup and bond, knew they must be ready and waiting to welcome the wanderer who always returned.
Time for the best cuts, for nuts and sweet berries, pretty things, special caches down in the roots and crooks of trees, wooden toys and whistles, drum and song, syrup on snow, and yes, there were mittens trimmed with wolverine from Gramma there at the beginning.
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