This is a quiet post-script, long lost and forgotten in the frost.
This is motion rather than respite, expedition rather than stagnation.
This is a breaking of camp at evening,
the outset of a sojourn into the night.
Rather than flee the advancing Winter and return home yet unsated and fearful,
this is my embarkation into the yawning pines and the monsters that writhe within it.
Haunting, deathless questions of life.
This is the dying sun,
laying down in the west,
yielding to the night.
This is the beginning of a journey in the dark.