O WIE NAH IST DER WEG HINAß

("Out of dithyrambics into heroics"):

Popol Vuh - Oh wie nah ist der Weg hinaß

Winter calls for certain soaring, heroic harmonies; heroic in order to withstand the bitter cold, soaring in order to skim weightlessly across snow's glimmering surface like a bird (without crushing it, spoiling it, transforming it's crystalline perfection into muddy, lethal moisture, like a common peasant's boot). The bitter wind at your back not your face, guiding your perfect arc over treetops.

No heroic trudge--
Like one's final chinese checkers piece, left behind as the land bridge disappears.
Fell asleep in a shallow snow-hole.
*trudge*

"False is that word of mine—the truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever go to the walls of Troy."

Wind sure is howling right now--

your hero,
Phaedrus Duvelius