BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Spiral clearings eat through brambles, pools of mud freeze: transformed into murky ice. Hedges of thorns endure storms and snow (their age shown by torn leaves). Eventually some paths close, but regardless of season these roads still wind.

“Winter never was my favourite,” remarked the jay in the wind. He continued, “Even the sea is frozen and all the warm places are closed.” He paused for a moment: where was the ice?

The trees wore strange leaves; rain where there should be snow.

No villages close, but there was a warm wind. The snow had vanished; everything was unfrozen. The ice was gone, the trees had healthy leaves.

And then he realised: this was home.