There is a winter here but it is not the one I am looking for. It is true I am here. On an island in the middle of the Pacific. It is very not winter here. If this is winter then what does summer mean. The wind has become my friend. I can recall a tumutlous relationship with the wind in other winter scenes. But here the wind is friend.
On the lake the wind will turn on me I know. It will rip and tear, drift and suck, drain and strain.
The heat will go with it. Wisked away to nowhere.
To those in the cold this can and must seem like the idea place. Well in ways it is. But I am looking to return to the other idea place. The place on the ice. Where the wind is foe and not friend where white has decimated green. Where the crunch under foot can tell the temp. Where one muct watch their step. To the place where alchemy exists.