The stars shiver in the winter. The fires scinter when they splinter. The ammil glazes the twig by morning. The breath but a ghost that forgets its own warning. The river gives up and goes under in silence. The branches keep score with a cracking compliance. The moon wears its moonbroch, a warning unheeded. The scree sliding long after the mountain's receded. The bole stands bare, for the wind has taken. And under it all, the ground has awakened.