The Yuki Mushi clamour in the air most days now, crying snowy WOLF to anyone who will listen. I barely notice them at all these days, or I dismiss their existence spitefully. I see what were once romantic harbingers now more as aggravating liars: tiny false prophets who will swarm your eyes and your nose and your hair to tell you...nothing.
For there is no snow for them to herald, and all we've got to show for this end of November is a drawn-out, leafless indian summer. Under icy nights so clear as to cause the stars to pierce your eyes like pins, I pray to the full moon in the cloudless sky: that the cold she brings in the midnight hours should seep int the days; that it should cause all of this rain to fall in unrelenting curtains of white on the mountains; that its icy claws should ply our autumn coats, sneaking in through cracks and gaps until it forces us to once again pull on our woolies.
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