My Norse jars through the blizzard. Last century, my words were softer, not so alien to my own ears and tongue. The night howls around me, insulating me from any suicidal hikers or locals on the trail.
The clump of ancient firs is the only peaceful place now.
As if the squalls know not to disturb the place. The red markings on the trees and the snow steam.
I call out the sentinel, curious what form it’ll assume. Continue reading “Back Home”