Small Stone -- January 17 -- dayweaver

Some days have strings attached. Some days weave themselves from stray winds that never meant to meander into this valley. Some days, those theoretically wool-soft clouds drift close enough to gather. I'll card and spin and give them to the loom, tuck them into an old trunk full of moths. When the snow falls, we'll drink herbed cider and consider the wind-swept paths that lead both ways.