At such times, locked away inside wall and woolen, lulled by the sedatives of wood-smoke and candlelight, we recall the aion account competing claims of nature. We see the branch and bark of trees, rather than the sugar-scented green of their leaves. We look out the window and admire the elegance of ice crystal, the bravely patient tree leaning leafless into the wind, the dramatic shadows of the stooping sun. We look at the structure of things, the geometry of branch and snowflake, family and deed.
Even before the first snow, we view the world differently in winter. We watch the lawn settle into the sleep of frost and the last crumpled leaf quiver on the oak, and feel the change. At night the skies are cold and clear, and stars shine like the aion money dreams of serpents. The hillsides turn brown and gray; the edges of stalk and blade stand out starkly. Dark clouds settle on the mountain ridges. Storms rumble in like freight trains. Rain rattles the roof and thutters at the window.
Then comes the snow, and we once again wonder at how it transforms the familiar objects of our everyday world.
When snowflake drifts the road we head indoors and resign ourselves to the quiet crackle of the wood fire. The example of the runescape money woodpile and the well-stocked larder tells us that we can achieve what we dream, and winter brings us long, silent nights to dream on.
