January
and I catch a glimpse of the low grey band of clouds that have replaced the crisp blue sky of October
and in short, quick movements I will be whisked away to
April
grasping at every tree that marches me further and further from home, wondering if their
December
will bring the same anticipation, that stomach clenching, heart-warming cliche that one cannot
get away from of northern holidays. In this last day of January I am silently hustled into
February
which seems the longest month of the year, with its biting cold; igloos; no class; scraping at
March
who is blowing away the snow, only to be followed by another blizzard and into fast, cold winds of the highways as I am swept away toward some new place bodily but I am somewhere, still caught up in the tempest of
November
howls and stuck on the bare branches of the tree outside.