I wander in the dying hills of autumn, up here in the Kingdom of God, the great northeastern wilds; where the bows thrum and the gun shots hum long after the fire in them has released.

The fire in the hills, like the touch of Odin, drops the leaves into the waving broken grass.

Before snow falls, I smell woodsmoke rising from the cabins in the mountains, and in me the revelation of generational memories resurrects, the pounding heartbeat of all the mothers before me marching out in front of me like a purple whisper.

She stands in front of me, my all seeing blue eyed girl, conceived in the autumn and born in the spring, a production of two seasons that produce life and death; sometimes I call her Nokemis, but she doesn’t understand the weight in that name. Not yet.

Deep within her heart, a distant genetic memory, runs the blood of witches, and when she sings to me, she sings a song she doesn’t understand, a song translated from the hum of the earth.

Up here in these hills where the fire burns against the sky, and the smell of woodsmoke harkens those who hail the snow, I quietly wait for the day my daughter tells me,

Mama, I hear the winter coming.

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