January is upon is, and our days are cold and quiet.

The humid, song-filled nights of summer are now long-since gone.

The idea- That there is motion, or action, in the land, beyond or by our own powers, is something hard to be believed at all.

My thoughts turn to a woman, whose interest was once peaked, against all regular course, and what might have been.

But now, in the mystery of her absence, in the cold and solemn winter nights, I sit here, attempting warmth, by the rubbing of my hands, and the ignition of my memory for her.